


paranoia

by sunsetozier



Series: four years [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing Boys, College AU, F/F, Girls Kissing Girls, M/M, Musician!Stan, Slow Burn, actress!audra, also the slow burn only applies to two of the ships, art school au, audra is 20, audra is a junior, author!bill, bill mike and bev are 19, but still a lotta angst, cute shit, dancer!richie, filmmaker!beverly, kenduskeag college of the arts, luv them lesbians, one-sided enemies to ????? to kinda friends to ???? to friends to ???? to lovers, painter!eddie, photographer!mike, poet!ben, potential smut? maybe? havent decided if i wanna write it out yet, rating may change to e, realizing said assholeness, richie stan eddie and ben are all 18, scenes that are sexual but are not sex, stan is v protective of richie and vice versa, tags will be added as I go, technically reddie is the main focus of the story, the 18 year olds are the freshman, the 19 year olds are the sophomores, the other slow burn ship isnt as slow as the other, this is going to be very long, trying and failing to fix it, unintentionally being the biggest asshole in the world, well one of them takes forever, you'll see it'll make sense i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 90,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/pseuds/sunsetozier
Summary: When Eddie Kaspbrak applies to the Kenduskeag College of the Arts, he doesn't think he's going to get in. He thinks it's worth a shot, and he thinks he'll regret not trying, but actually making it in to the school of his dreams isn't even in the realm of what he thinks is possible.And hedefinitelydoesn't expect his entire life to change after getting that acceptance letter in the mail.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!! welcome to paranoia!!
> 
> just so you know, this is technically a reddie fic and will focus more on reddie than it will the other ships, but there will still be a LOT of writing focusing on the others as well. a majority of chapters will have various scenes consisting of various characters, whereas a few specific chapters which will be various scenes revolving solely around reddie. i'm only pointing that out now because i don't want people to get pissy with me about this fic not having enough reddie when i just want to give each character and relationship in this fic justice. the plot i have written out is really lengthy and cute and i don't want any of it to go to waste.
> 
> also! just so you know part two, there are a lot of elements in this story that i borrowed from my own life. i'm not going to specify what those things are because to say them would be to spoil things that will come into play later in the story, but as the story sheds some light on certain things, i will be sure to specify what is fiction and what is inspired by real events for anyone who is nosy enough to want to know.
> 
> i hope y'all are buckled in and ready for this art school madness!!

            Choosing to apply at the Kenduskeag College of the Arts was, to put it simply, nerve wracking. Not only is it almost impossible to get accepted into, which was incredibly disheartening to Eddie, who did not feel near worthy enough but still had enough passion to make him apply, but he also had to do it behind his mother’s back, using money from the college fund left behind in his name after his father’s death – a fund that, finally, Sonia Kaspbrak does not have control over now that he’s eighteen – to pay the application fees when he sent it in. When he applied, it was more of a far away dream with a certainty for failure than anything else, a glimmering idea of living on the west coast, far away from the dingey city of Chicago that he grew up in. He didn’t know how he would be able to afford attending such a prestigious art school, a school so top of the line and incredible that no more than a hundred students are accepted each year, but he knew he was willing to do whatever he had to in order to make things work out. There wasn’t much else he could do in order to pursue art as a career, and if this fell through, he knew he wouldn’t be able to fight his mother anymore, would have to succumb to whatever plan she had made for him, a plan that no doubt kept him close to home, never really out of her reach.

            By the time he heard about Kenduskeag sending out their acceptance – and, consequently, their denial – letters to those who applied, Eddie had already whittled himself to the bone with worry and anxiety. He thought and overthought the pieces he decided to send in his portfolio to the point of near-crying, gnawing on his thumb nail, wishing he could apply again, use better paintings, write a better essay. Every day for two weeks straight he biked home from school instead of taking the city bus like he usually did for no reason other than getting home as fast as humanly possible. And, of course, to reach the mailbox before his mother checked at four in the afternoon, like she always does every single day without fail. She got out of her whole reading-Eddie’s-mail phase when he was sixteen, but he knew that if she saw a letter from a university over in Oregon, she would rip it up and throw it away before he even got the chance to see it. It was that knowledge that made him speed home, flying down the streets, barely avoiding cars and weaving through traffic until he was able to carelessly drop his bike in the driveway and fling open the mailbox, digging through the contents inside with a heaving chest and hopeful eyes.

            It took two weeks, but eventually, his letter arrived. He remembers his heart jumping and his breath stuttering when he held it, the thick envelope resting in his palms like a prized item that would shatter if he wasn’t careful. He tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and pulled his shirt down to cover it before taking the rest of the mail to his mother, trying to contain his nervous energy as he bounced from foot to foot until he could finally make his escape, scrambling up the stairs and locking his bedroom door behind him. It took a solid ten minutes of staring at the letter anxiously before he had the courage to tear it open, and when he did, he held his breath, taking out the pages inside and unfolding them. He didn’t exhale until after he skimmed over the words, and when he did, he let out a quiet sob.

            Not only did he get in, but he was offered a _scholarship_. A full-ride pass to the school of his dreams. With this opportunity, he could use his college fund for travel expenses and rely on it for at least his first year, not having to worry about getting a job quite yet. And, better than that, he would be far away from Chicago, far away from his mother, and living a life of his own. The mere idea of that was enough to send him into happy hysterics, blubbering like a baby, and when he told his mom, he couldn’t bother to care about her crocodile tears and her ugly wails because he was just too god damn ecstatic to let her blatant attempts at manipulation to wither away at his good mood. And when he boarded his flight at the beginning of September, he didn’t look back, not even for a second.

            What he quickly learns upon arriving to Kenduskeag, however, is that scholarship students _do_ pay a price, and that price happens to come in the form of a dorm room. A very small, very suffocating dorm room, known as the scholar dorms. Looking online, the website makes it clear that scholarship students are put in different dorm rooms that are not as luxurious as the others – though there are no pictures to show just how different they are. Originally, Eddie assumed that the differences couldn’t be _too_ drastic, but, oh man, was he wrong.

            The scholar dorms at Kenduskeag are, as Eddie quickly observes upon pulling open the door and stepping inside, about the size of four, maybe five, broom closets shoved together. In one corner is one bed, and in the opposite corner is another, with approximately five feet of space between them. To his left is a door leading to a small bathroom, and to his right, an actually decent-sized closet that’s about half the size of the entire dorm. Pressed to the wall connected to the door are two medium-sized dressers. Down the hall is a common kitchen area for all the scholarship students to share – which, to be fair, there aren’t that many of. If being accepted into this school is hard, being offered a scholarship is a hundred times harder, meaning that there’s only fourty or so of them attending at this current moment, an average of ten scholarship students being brought in every year. Still, the idea of trying to share this small of a space with another person is suffocating all on its own, and his roommate isn’t even here yet.

            With a meek little sigh, trying to battle away the disappointment growing hot and ugly in his chest, he drops his bags by his feet and takes a careful step forward, wincing when that single step sets him a quarter of the way into the room. “Okay,” he murmurs to himself, if only just to hear something other than his own breathing bouncing off the bare walls, and slowly turns himself around to examine the area more carefully, trying to assess how to approach this less-than-ideal revelation. Admittedly, he doesn’t think there’s a whole lot he _can_ do, but that doesn’t mean he can’t at least come up with a few ideas that he can bring up to his roommate later, whenever they get here. Moving the beds is an option, though there’s not much space to move them to. Turning them is something to consider, too, so that, instead of being on opposite walls and parallel to one another, the beds would be against the same wall, opening up the rest of the floor space and making it at least look a little bit bigger than it is. Investing in a bunk bed could also be on the list of ideas, but he’s fairly certain the college doesn’t allow them to replace the beds given to them, if he correctly remembers the emailed guidelines he got a month ago and hasn’t read since. Even with these ideas, though, he can only really hope for a reasonably well-behaved and somewhat tidy roommate who will understand and respect why Eddie is against letting such a tiny, cramped space get cluttered and crowded.

            “Dude, these dorms are fucking _tiny_ ,” a voice suddenly exclaims from down the hall, loud enough that it echoes into the dorm room and makes Eddie physically jump in surprise, eyes wide as he spins on his heel. He isn’t sure what it is – a curiosity to see the face of someone capable of speaking at such a volume or just his all-natural nosiness – but something causes him to lurch toward the door, his right hand bracing against the wall as he teeters forward just enough for his eyes to peek around the door frame. At the end of the hallway, looking as though they just turned the corner, there are two boys walking side-by-side and gazing around with equal parts interest and mild distaste.

            One of the two boys, with bright blond hair tucked into a beanie and sharp features that somehow manage to look relaxed, nods, as if in agreement, and Eddie can only assume it’s in response to the same phrase that had caused him to leap out of his skin. “Ridiculously tiny,” he states, leaning over to look into one of the open doors as they slowly trail past it, frowning unhappily at what he sees. “Like, _way_ tinier than mine. These look like they aren’t even _half_ the size of my place. It’s kind of painful to look at. I don’t think I’d be able to live in one.”

            “Gee, thanks,” the other boy, with dark brown hair that glints a faded ginger in certain lighting, snorts, rolling his sparkling blue eyes and shaking his head slightly. “That’s nice to hear. Seriously, makes me feel really good and excited about this whole thing.” Blond grins at that, looking amused, and nudges Brunet’s shoulder with his own, lips parted in a manner that looks like he’s ready to say something else – something more genuine, perhaps, comforting and kind and supportive – but before he can say anything, Brunet shrugs half-heartedly and adds, “It doesn’t really matter, though. I’m not gonna be here any more than absolutely necessary, remember?”

            This is, apparently, a touchy subject to bring up, Eddie thinks, as Blond comes to a sudden halt in the center of the hallway and puts out a hand to grab at Brunet’s shirt, causing him to stumble to a stop as well. Eddie huddles backwards, afraid of being spotted, as Blond glances between different points of Brunet’s features repeatedly, as if trying to memorize him. Or, more likely, trying to get a good read on him. “You promised,” he says after a long moment, and his tone is vastly different than it had been before, lower and softer and almost a little sad. “You _promised_. You can’t just—”

            Just then, one of the doors down the hall flies open and one of the Senior scholarship students steps out, raising her brows at the two boys in confusion. “Do you guys need help figuring out where you’re going?” she asks kindly. Unable to help himself, Eddie grimaces, cursing lightly under his breath as his curiosity grows in his chest. He realizes that he shouldn’t have been listening in the first place, and eavesdropping on a private conversation – even if said conversation is taking place in a very non-private place – is not a good idea. Still, he’s intrigued by the supposed promise that this Brunet guy made and is apparently breaking, and he knows that not hearing the rest of that is going to make his skin itch.

            “Actually, yeah, that’d be great,” Brunet says cheerfully, and Eddie can see the strained look on Blond’s features when Brunet tears his arm out of his grip and digs in his pocket for some kind of folded over slip of paper. Flattening it out, he brings the paper up to his face, eyes narrowed down in a squint, and eventually asks, “Is, uh- can you show me where room three fifteen is?”

            Eddie blinks, brows twitching up slightly as he reels back into his dorm completely, pressing back against the wall and gazing at the large, blocky numbers on the door to his room – dorm number three-hundred and fifteen. With a long, slow sigh, unsure if he’s intrigued by this or not, he lets his head thump back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

            Looks like the brunet with the secret promise is his roommate, then.

 

 

 

 

            The first thing Mike notices about his dorm is that it’s only a few doors down from the room he had last year. When he realizes this, he can’t help but grin as memories of his freshman year flash through his mind – long nights with Bill and Beverly, huddled together on the sofa provided by the school (fairly small in size, but surprisingly comfortable) and watching random shit on TV as they ate ice cream and laughed themselves to tears. This year, he expects much of the same – though it may be more difficult since his and Bill’s request to room together had been declined, for some reason. Hopefully, though, his roommate won’t mind his friends being around so much.

            Or, even better, his roommate will become one of his friends and will join them on their late-night shenanigans. Perhaps it won’t be that easy, but Mike is known to be a determined optimist. As long as his roommate isn’t a complete asshole, he doesn’t think it’ll be that much of a problem.

            Upon walking into his room for the year, it comes to his attention that he is not the first one to get here, if the two suitcases propped against the wall by the door is anything to go by. Shouldering his duffle bag and pulling his own large suitcase behind him, he hip checks the door to let it swing shut and scans the area briefly. As expected, the layout as exactly like his last dorm room at Kenduskeag – a decent sized living area that’s half living room, half kitchen with a small table separating the two, the sofa positioned against the far wall and a TV stand with a small television placed on it. Next to the sofa is a door leading to the restroom. To his left is another door leading to one of the two small bedrooms, the same to his right.

            On the sofa, there is a boy who looks close to Mike’s age, but perhaps a bit younger. His face is a little pudgy and naturally round, his body built in a way that shows he must have been much larger as a child but slimmed out to look like a cuddly teddy bear. When Mike meets his gaze, his face immediately burns a bashful red as he lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave, letting it fall after a moment, shoulders slumping with it. Mike grins and releases his suitcase, letting his duffle bag fall to the floor before chirpily greeting, “Hi! I’m guessing you’re my roommate?”

            “I hope so,” the boy replies quietly, glancing between the floor and Mike’s gaze, like he can’t decide if it’s strange to maintain eye contact or not. “If not, then I’m in the wrong room, and I’d really rather not deal with that kind of embarrassment before classes even start.”

            “Room one-ten, right?” Mike questions, suppressing the urge to chuckle. He doesn’t want this stranger to interpret his laughter as cruel or judgmental. Silently, the boy nods, and Mike beams at him. “You’re in the right place, my friend. I’m Mike Hanlon.” Moving over until he’s standing a foot away from the boy, he sticks a hand out between them and asks, “What’s your name?”

            Still looking bashful and uncertain, the boy accepts the offer and shakes Mike’s hand, murmuring, “Ben. Ben Hanscom.” After a moment, he drops Mike’s hand and lets his gaze travel down slightly, as if taking in Mike’s full appearance for the first time, before letting his eyes settle on the piece of equipment dangling around Mike’s neck. “Photography major?”

            Mike nods, taking the camera into his hands with great care as he answers, “Yep! It’s my second year, so my dad surprised me and gave me his old camera to celebrate. This baby’s is old and beautiful, but she’s gonna get me through the intermediate classes I’ll be taking this year.” He smiles down at his camera, then lets it go back to dangling from the strap around his neck while he looks at Ben curiously. “I’m guessing you’re a freshman?”

            “Is it that obvious?” Ben asks with a small frown.

            Shrugging slightly, Mike tells him, “Only a little. This place is hard to get into, you know? So, like, there’s not a whole lot of students here, and I don’t recognize you from last year. I figured you’re either a freshman or a transfer, but there’s only a couple transfer students a year, so the probability pointed towards freshman. The fact that you look pretty nervous also kinda pointed towards freshman, ‘cause all freshman are, like, terrified on move in day. I know I was shitting myself last year, but don’t worry, Ben. This place is pretty straight-forward and almost everyone here is nice.”

            Ben blinks, looking as though he wasn’t expecting this conversation to drag on as long as it has, but he doesn’t look particularly bugged by it. If anything, he just seems surprised that Mike is willing to talk to him for an extended period of time. Mike already thinks that Ben will fit in with his friends just fine.

            “So, Ben,” he says, falling into the empty spot on the sofa and letting his head lull to the side to smile reassuringly at his new roommate. “What are you planning to do here? You got a major in mind?”

            “Creative writing,” Ben answers instantly, only to immediately blush, as if embarrassed, but when Mike brightens in genuine interest, he can’t help but smile. “Poetry, specifically, but they don’t have just a poetry major. The official degree I’m going for is creative writing with an emphasis in poetry.”

            Energetically, Mike claps a hand on Ben’s shoulder and exclaims, “Dude, that’s so cool! You know, my friend, Bill, he’s majoring in creative writing, too, but he’s getting an emphasis on writing novels or whatever. I can’t remember what the actual degree is called, but he writes some of the greatest stories I’ve ever read. You should meet him! He’s been wanting a creative writing buddy since last year!”

            Parting his lips slightly in shock, Ben averts his gaze down to his hands and shakes his head, murmuring, “No, I- I’m not that good. If he writes the best stories you’ve ever read, then he’s probably way better than I am.”

            “Well, that’s bullshit,” Mike scoffs, ducking his head down to meet Ben’s eyes, his own shining with sincerity. “Ben, you got into _Kenduskeag_ , alright? There’s, like, less than four-hundred students here. Do you know what that means?” Shyly, Ben shakes his head, causing Mike to grin as he says, “That means that less than a hundred people get accepted every year, and you’re one of the ones that they picked. Out of thousands of applications, the college chose _you_. Have some faith, man! If they wanted you to come here, that means you’ve got to be insanely talented!”

            “I…” Ben trails off, his brows twitching together slightly. He appears to be uncertain, but less so than before, and Mike can’t help but blink in shock when Ben’s eyes glaze over with a steely kind of determination as he pushes himself to his feet. Without saying a word, Ben strides across the room and digs through a backpack – _his_ backpack, presumedly – before spinning around with a small, black, leather-bound notebook in hand. Now a bit more sheepish, though the determination doesn’t waver, he holds the notebook out towards Mike and says, “These are my favorite poems that I’ve written. I, uh… You can take a look. If you want.”

            Mike falters, looking between Ben’s gaze and the offered notebook a few times before holding up a single finger. “Hold that thought,” he says, also pushing himself to his feet and digging his phone out of his back pocket. Unlocking it quickly, he pulls up his photos and clicks on the album for his photography. Satisfied, he accepts the book and replacing it with his phone, stating, “I see your art, you see mine. Fair trade, and a pretty damn good ice breaker for our first day as roommates. Is that okay?”

            Immediately, Ben nods, a wide grin on his face as him and Mike both fall back onto the sofa, sitting side-by-side as they turn their attention to the objects in their hands. Ben wastes no time in clicking on the first photo and flicks through them one at a time, but Mike doesn’t rush into digging through the notebook quite yet. Instead, he slowly examines the front cover, taking in how worn-down and well-loved this thing is, then he carefully opens it, fingertips gentle on the pages as his eyes scan over the words.

            It very quickly becomes apparent that Ben puts a lot of thought into his poetry, each word looking carefully chosen and written with precision, the ink staining the page flowing together in such a way that Mike can almost feel the words under his own skin – much like how he feels when he reads Bill’s writing, he thinks. Each poem he reads makes his heart thud heavier, and there are a few so heartfelt and deep that have clear tear stains by the words, and Mike feels his eyes water at that realization. Eventually, he flips to the next page and finds the paper blank. A quick examination shows that the rest of the notebook has yet to be filled out, and he takes a moment to inhale before closing it and saying, “These are _amazing_ , Ben.”

            “You think so?” Ben asks quietly, his gaze focused on Mike’s phone despite the fact that he had already seen every photo in the album.

            “Yeah, I do,” Mike promises, handing the notebook back to Ben and gratefully accepting his phone when Ben extends it towards him. For a moment, a silence settles over the room, in which Ben looks down at his notebook with a pleased expression, but then Mike throws an arm around his shoulders and says, “So, you seem pretty cool, and we’re obviously going to be living together until June. Would you maybe want to meet my friends? I think they’d like you, and, like I said, Bill’s been wanting a creative writing buddy since we started here a year ago. Bev will just think you’re cool and will probably want to make a little movie based on you or something.”

            Ben lets out a little confused laugh at that, but he takes time to ponder over Mike’s words, weighing the pros and cons in his mind. On one hand, he knows his social skills are a little underwhelming and he’ll probably end up saying two words if he meets them, but on the other hand, he promised his mother he’d make some friends – and he really does _want_ to make friends, too. Besides, Mike has proven to be nothing but kind and welcoming to him thus far, so he can only assume that his friends are the same. And if they don’t mind being friends with a freshman, then he’ll be glad to befriend them.

            Actually, the more he thinks about it, the more he really, really wants to at least give it a shot, his own anxieties be damned. Maybe something good with come out of it. Maybe something _great_ will come out of it. There’s only one way to find out, really.

            “I’d like to meet them,” he decides.

            With an excited little shout and an amusing fist-pump that almost makes Ben snort, Mike exclaims, “Yes! They’re probably busy today, with all the unpacking and such, but classes don’t start until Monday, so we can meet up with them tomorrow, if that’s okay with you?”

            Grinning giddily, Ben nods. “That sounds great!”

            “Sweet!” Mike returns the grin, then, apparently satisfied, he pushes himself to his feet and claps his hands together. Pointedly looking around the dorm, he says, “Now, to more official business. Which room do you want? Because I’m totally fine with either one, but I have about a hundred pictures I want to pin up before dinner, so we need to decide who goes where, like, right now.”

 

 

 

 

            Beverly has been looking forward to coming back to Kenduskeag since the minute she left in June, a longing in her chest to return to her two closest friends and spend all her time focusing on the thing she loves. When she finally steps onto campus, she swears that tears come to her eyes due to the amount of joy flowing through her veins, and she can’t help the pep in her step as she makes her way to the dorm building. Her room this year is on the opposite side of the building as the one she had last year, but she doesn’t mind – if her new roommate is anything like her last one, she’ll probably end up crashing at Bill’s or Mike’s dorm most of the time, anyway.

            That was definitely her favorite part of her freshman year, meeting those two. It may have only been a year ago, but she already can’t imagine life without them, can’t fathom the idea of not being able to go out at random points in the night just because they want ice cream. Even over the summer, when she stayed here in Kenduskeag Valley, renting a shitty apartment just until she could move back to the dorms, whilst Mike was home in Kansas and Bill was all the way over in Maine, they talked every day, through texts and calls and the occasional FaceTime. This year, she’d like to try and make a few more friends, but if not, she’s more than happy with the little trio she’s found herself in.

            Maybe, if she’s lucky, her roommate won’t be an asshole like before. Maybe her roommate will become one of her friends.

            Or maybe, is she’s not as lucky, her roommate is Audra fucking Phillips.

            Beverly has heard plenty about Audra, most of which she’s fairly sure isn’t even true, but those rumors have to be based on something, right? The two haven’t really interacted much before, save for a brief moment last year where they had run into each other in the hall – like, _literally_ ran into each other, sending both of them sprawling onto the floor, items scattering everywhere. At the time, Beverly had been embarrassed, stammering out apologies and scrambling to pick up everything that had fallen. This was before the rumors had come out, and in Beverly’s eyes, Audra was some kind of goddess, already the best actress in all of Kenduskeag despite only being a sophomore, and while Audra hadn’t stayed to chat, she had given Beverly a grin that had her weak in the knees.

            Now, however, when Beverly pushes open the door to her dorm room and sees Audra bopping her head along to something she can’t recognize, she does not feel weak in the knees or embarrassed. If anything, she feels wary, all the rumors from last year flittering to the front of her brain, and all she can think to say is, “What the fuck is _that_?!”

            Clearly shocked by the sudden voice, Audra spins around, one hand clutching onto the front of her shirt as if to keep in her heart whilst the other presses against the wall to keep her steady as she stares at Beverly with a mixture of confusion and incredulousness.

            “The music,” Beverly clarifies, suddenly realizing how bad her exclamation sounds without context. “I don’t- I don’t recognize this song.”

            Audra takes a moment to respond, apparently still reeling from how suddenly Beverly appeared, but eventually she manages to answer, “It’s an original song. From Glee.”

            Unable to help herself, Beverly feels her nose crinkle slightly in distaste, stepping further into their dorm in order to shut the door behind her, letting her backpack slide off her shoulder and land on the floor with a quiet _plop_. “Glee?” she repeats, shaking her head. “Seriously? You, the greatest actress in all of Kenduskeag, are listening to _Glee_? You do realize that Glee sucks, right?”

            “Oh, I know,” Audra nods, looking semi-amused now as she moves across the room to turn the volume up on her phone, where the music is coming from. Her smile is smug when Beverly’s distaste becomes more evident in her twisted-up features. “It’s one of those shows that’s complete shit but I love it anyway. Kind of like a guilty pleasure, I guess. The music’s not too bad, though.”

            Beverly blinks, lips pursed to give the impression that she’s deep in thought, then deadpans, “Alright, so I’m gonna need a new roommate, then. No Glee is allowed in my dorm.”

            With a little laugh, Audra sticks her hand out and says, “Judging by your actress comment, you already know who I am, but I’m gonna introduce myself anyway. I’m—”

            “Audra Phillips,” Beverly finishes, shaking Audra’s hand quickly. “I’m Beverly.”

            “I know,” Audra says, grinning, and for a moment Beverly thinks that weak-knees thing from last year might make an appearance. “Beverly Marsh. First person in Kenduskeag history to change majors while still a freshman. That was a ballsy move, by the way.”

            Shrugging dismissively, Beverly tells her, “I just realized I like using a camera to record stuff more than I like using a camera to take pictures. The introductory classes for filmmaking and photography are pretty similar, so it wasn’t that much of a change.”

            “Still,” Audra insists, “you made a name for yourself when you did that. People respect you.”

            For a moment, the air goes still, and Beverly has to bite her tongue to stop herself from asking any of the stupid questions she wants to ask, because she knows all too well what happened to Audra’s reputation after things got out of hand. She knows that Audra is still respected for her talent, but anything beyond that is openly shunned, as if the very culmination of her being is something to be ashamed of, and while Beverly may be curious to find out how that mess even happened, the two of them are only just properly meeting for the first time and they’ll have to live together for the next year. Pressing the wrong buttons just to fulfill her own curiosity won’t end well, not by a long shot, so she swallows back her questions and offers a smile, instead. “I saw you in the winter play last year. If I ever thought I had a chance at acting, it was demolished when I saw how good you are. It’s really not an exaggeration when people say you’re the best this school has ever seen.”

            Looking somewhat bashful, Audra ducks her head slightly and shrugs. “I don’t think I’m the best, but thank you, I guess.”

            “You’re more than just the best,” Beverly points out, her voice lilted as though her words are obvious. “You’re literally the best of the best. Only the best get into this school and compared to the rest of the Kenduskeag drama department, you’re the best out of all of them. Seriously, you’re gonna go places.”

            Audra grins at that, looking pleased, then promptly decides to flip the conversation around. “What about you, huh? I didn’t get to see it, but I heard the short film you presented at the Spring Quarter Final Show was incredible.”

            “Eh, it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t _that_ good,” Beverly says, lifting a hand and tilting it side to side in a so-so manner. “It was only my second short film, so it was a bit rough, but I’ve been practicing all summer at getting good shots and all that stuff. If people think last years was good, they’re gonna be blown away at the shit I’m gonna make this year.”

            “Ooh, confident,” Audra muses.

            “You have to be when you go to a place like this,” Beverly replies simply.

            For a moment, Audra doesn’t say anything, looking as though she’s pondering over Beverly’s words. Then, sounding a little softer, she says, “Yeah, I guess you do.” When Beverly looks at her, she can see that Audra’s eyes have glazed over slightly, as if she’s reflecting on something that Beverly can’t understand, but then she blinks, and the fogginess has disappeared. “Anyway, uh- I hope you don’t mind, but I took the room on the left. If that’s a problem then I don’t mind switching, I haven’t unpacked at all yet, so it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

            Beverly shakes her head, and again she’s struck with the need to ask so many questions that are not at all appropriate to ask someone you barely know. “I’m fine with either one,” she assures, scooping down to pick up her bag and toss it through the bedroom door on the right side of the room.

            Confused, Audra follows the movement of the bag and then looks down to examine the empty space surrounding Beverly. “You have more than just a backpack of stuff, right?”

            “Oh, yeah, don’t worry,” Beverly laughs, gesturing behind her vaguely as she explains, “I was renting an apartment on the other side of the Valley, but since dorms are cheaper, I decided to stay here during the school year. The rest of my crap is still at my apartment. I was planning on bringing the rest of it over tomorrow, but my friend Mike just texted me before I got here and said he wants us to all meet up in the morning for breakfast. Which reminds me that I’m supposed to go and get it now, so…” Beverly trails off, weighing her options in her head – she could offer to bring Audra with her and stop for some dinner, but then Audra would probably feel obligated to help with carrying Beverly’s bags, which would make Beverly feel bad. Just abruptly leaving feels rude, though. With a low hum, she decides to find the middle ground and suggests, “Hey, if you want, I’m probably gonna stop and get something to eat on the way back here. I can pick you up something, if you’re hungry? My treat. Think of it as an early apology for being stuck as my roommate until June.”

            This draws out a pleasantly surprised little chuckle from somewhere within Audra’s chest, as if she didn’t expect to be treated so graciously, which Beverly supposes is probably true. She could count the amount of people at Kenduskeag who are kind to Audra Phillips on one hand, and it would consist solely of Audra’s professors and herself. “You don’t have to do that,” Audra says.

            “But I want to, and I’m gonna get you something no matter what, so you might as well tell me what you like,” Beverly grins.

            “In that case, surprise me,” Audra relents, returning the grin.

            Beverly raises her brows in uncertainty. “Are you sure? What if I get you something you’re allergic to? I can’t have the death of an up-and-coming Broadway star on my hands.”

            Releasing a loud snort, Audra shakes her head and assures, “No allergies, I promise. Whatever you’re getting, just get two. I’m not picky.”

            “Alright, if you say so,” Beverly agrees reluctantly, patting down her pockets to make sure she has her phone and her keys despite the fact that she hasn’t taken them out since arriving. Satisfied, she offers a little parting wave and turns on her heel, only to be stopped as Audra’s hand shoots forwards and wraps around her wrist, the ring on her middle finger digging into Beverly’s skin in a way that isn’t exactly unpleasant.

            “Thank you, Beverly,” Audra says when Beverly looks back at her in confusion, suddenly much more quiet now. She drops her hold and licks her lower lip. “For, uh- being nice, I guess. I was really worried about having to room with someone again after… well, you probably heard the rumors. I figured whoever I ended up rooming with would treat me like shit after that stuff got around last year, so… yeah. Just, um- thanks. For being cool.”

            Unable to help the way her features soften, Beverly offers a reassuring smile and lifts a single shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Rumors are rumors,” she says. “I never thought they were true, and even if they are, who cares? That’s your business, no one else’s. And besides, you shouldn’t thank me for being cool, ‘cause I’m not. Me and my friends call ourselves the losers of Kenduskeag for a reason. If anything, you should be mad about rooming with me, because my friends are gonna love you and drag you into being a loser, too.”

            Audra laughs lightly. “Honestly, being known as a loser would be an upgrade,” she admits, and Beverly doesn’t miss the way her gaze flickers to the floor as she shoves her hands in the front pockets of her jeans and nods towards the door. “Go, get your stuff. Sorry for stopping you.”

            “Nothing to be sorry for,” Beverly grins, walking backwards towards the door in order to hold Audra’s gaze briefly. “You can call me Bev, by the way. All my friends do.”

 

 

 

 

            “So, your friend seems… interesting.”

            Stan snorts as he falls onto the sofa in his dorm, body already exhausted from the long drive to Kenduskeag Valley. The mere idea of having to unpack makes his lips tug down in a frown, but he knows the sooner he does it, the better. That doesn’t mean he can’t put it off for another ten minutes though. “Yeah, Richie seems like a lot at first glance, but he’s sweet. Sorry about him bugging you so much, though. He insisted on coming with me to meet you because, and these are his exact words, ‘you can’t room with a jackass’.” He puts air quotes around the last part, rolling his eyes fondly.

            From across the room, where he’s leaning against the small kitchen counter and sipping at a soda, Bill lets out a small, amused laugh, shrugging his shoulders as he does so. “No worries, man. It was definitely weird being interrogated by a complete stranger, but, I mean… just goes to show how much he cares about you, which I think is pretty cute. I’d probably do the same if my brother was going here.”

            “You have a brother?” Stan asks, partly because he’s interested in learning about the person he’ll be living with for the next nine months, but mostly because he can continue to procrastinate unpacking so long as the conversations doesn’t come to an end. With a little smile, Bill nods. “What’s his name?”

            “Georgie,” Bill answers, taking a moment to finish the last of his soda before tossing it into the garbage can placed on the side of the fridge – something that hadn’t been there when Stan left to help Richie track down the scholar dorms, so he can only assume it’s something Bill brought along. Stan makes a mental note to thank him later. “He’s fifteen right now, so I don’t have to worry about him living in a dorm for a few more years.”

            Stan hums lightly, leaning further into the cushions of the sofa. It’s kind of ridiculous, he thinks, how comfortable this couch is, since it’s provided by the school. All of it is pretty ridiculous, to be honest – they’ve got a kitchen and a table and their own bathroom. It’s like a little apartment. He feels bad for Richie, really, seeing as the scholar dorms are more like walk-in closets with a tiny restroom attached, but Richie made it clear that he has no intention to stay at his dorm for longer than he has to. Of course, Stan is going to try to change that, will even go as far as to call Went and Maggie if he has to, because Richie needs to keep his focus _here_ , not elsewhere, and _especially_ not on things that shouldn’t be his responsibility to worry about in the first place.

            But he’ll have to address that mess later, when he can actually do something about it.

            “Richie isn’t my brother,” he says, the only thing he can think of that’ll keep the conversation from ending. He really doesn’t want to unpack yet, okay? “I mean, he _is_ , but not by blood. We’ve just been best friends since we were little, but he’s… protective, I guess? I don’t know how to explain it, but in the past few years, he’s really gotten good at being an older brother.”

            “He’s older than you, then?” Bill questions, cocking his head to the side. He doesn’t look particularly interested in this knowledge, but he seems to be able to tell that Stan is postponing the end of their talk and is humoring him with more time, something that Stan is pretty grateful for.

            “Technically,” Stan replies.

            This choice of answer seems to confuse Bill, his brows twitching together slightly and his lips parting, question on the tip of his tongue, but he decides to opt out of it and instead juts his chin out to silently gesture towards Stan’s bedroom door. “We didn’t get to fully introduce ourselves before you left, but I saw you carry in a few instruments. You’re a musician?”

            Grinning, Stan nods, momentarily considering pushing himself to his feet to grab one of his instruments in order to show it off, but decides that they have all year for him to show off and this couch is way too comfortable to get off of quite yet. Instead, he proudly boasts, “That I am. What about you? What got you into Kenduskeag?”

            “Writing,” Bill says with a shrug, crossing his arms over his chest. “Novels, screenwriting, shit like that. I wanna publish books and write movies. It works out pretty great, ‘cause my friend Bev is a filmmaking major, so once we graduate we’ll probably team up. I’ll write it, she’ll direct, and we can probably fit our friend Mike in there somewhere. Have him do the photography for all the promotional stuff or something like that, if he'll even have time to work with us after becoming the best photographer the world has ever seen before.”

            Impressed, Stan lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Sounds like you have it all planned out.”

            Again, Bill shrugs, dropping one of his arms in order to dig his phone out of his pocket, assumedly checking some kind of text or something. He smiles briefly down at the screen, rolls his eyes to himself, and then puts it back in his pocket before turning his attention back to Stan, who’s resisting the urge to ask what that had been about. It’s not his business, and he doesn’t want to intrude and make it awkward between the two of them, especially before the school year has even officially started. “I guess,” Bill says after a moment, looking contemplative as he cocks his head to the side. “Nothing super ironed out, but the three of us are only Sophomores, so we have time to figure out the specifics. How about you? Got any plans for after you get out of here? Where do you want to take your music?”

            “Honestly?” Stan frowns, mulling over Bill’s question for a long moment before letting out a slow sigh. “I don’t really know. Whatever I can do, I guess. I’ll figure it out.”

            “You don’t have any ideas yet?” Bill asks. “Or even just some kind of childhood dream?”

            Stan shakes his head, tapping his fingers against his knee absentmindedly as he says, “This is as far as I let my dreaming go, to be honest. My parents are cool and all, but they wanted me to be an accountant, and my only hope to not be forced into that was getting into Kenduskeag. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what comes after. As long as Richie and I can stick together, though, I don’t care, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

            At that, Bill can’t help but grin, nodding his head in understanding. “I can understand that much. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to stick with Bev and Mike when we graduate.”

            “Are they nice?” Stan questions, and he realizes that he’s asking simply for the sake of knowing now, because Bill seems alright and his friends must be the same, and while Stan loves Richie to death, the two of them making some more friends wouldn’t hurt. “Your friends, I mean. What are they like?”

            “They’re great,’ Bill instantly gushes, his features lighting up in a way that makes Stan feel giddy just to see, and he thinks that must be how he looks when he brags about how great Richie is to everyone else. Best friends are like family and talking about loved ones never fails to be energizing. “Mike and I were roommates last year, and Bev was across the hall from us, which is how we all met. I don’t know why, but we just- we hit it off right off the bat. Within a few weeks, we were inseparable. I can’t imagine life without them, and I’ve only known them for a year.”

            With a smile, Stan says, “They sound pretty cool.”

            “I think you’d like them,” Bill hums, his brows twitching together in thought as he looks down at his phone once more, looking as if he’s weighing his options in his mind. Apparently coming to some kind of conclusion, he looks up again and adds, “Actually, since we’re talking about them, the three of us were planning on going out for breakfast tomorrow. Mike’s bringing his roommate, and Bev might bring hers, so you can come, if you want. You can bring Richie, too. I think the two of you would get along well with them, and if you end up hating it, at least you get a good breakfast out of it, right?”

            Laughing lightly, Stan takes a moment to consider this offer before reluctantly shaking his head. “I’d love to, but we can’t. Richie and I were planning on driving back down to Witcham tonight so that we can bring to rest of the crap we need to our dorms tomorrow.”

            Confused, Bill asks, “Witcham? Where’s that?”

            “That’s where we’re from,” Stan answers, finally pushing himself to his feet – he completely forgot about their plan to go back tonight, so he only has a few hours to work on unpacking before they have to head out. If he wants to get anything done, he’s gonna have to stop postponing the inevitable. “It’s a pretty small town about an hour and a half away from here. Pretty cozy place, to be honest.”

            “Oh,” Bill nods, flipping his phone over in his hands absentmindedly. “That’s probably gonna be nice, living close enough to home to go visit on the weekends and stuff. I’m from Maine, so I can only fly back and visit on holidays.”

            An involuntary snort slips past Stan’s lips as he shakes out his limbs, trying to get himself more energized now that he’s finally going to get to work on settling in. The noise makes Bill frown, causing Stan to quickly explain, “It’s cool to be able to visit, yeah, but Richie’s planning on taking a bus back home pretty much every day.”

            “Really?” Bill questions, his frown only deepening, brows drawn together. “Why?”

            Stan falters, blinking once before averting his gaze to the floor. “That’s not really my business to tell, but… let’s just say he’s very family oriented, and going more than a few days without seeing his family makes him freak out for reasons that I’m not allowed to explain.”

            Looking lost, Bill lets out a little _humph_ , but he lets the subject drop, no doubt swallowing back his questions for Stan’s sake. “Mysterious,” is all he says, and when Stan looks back up at him, he has an eyebrow cocked in a way that’s somewhat serious and mostly joking – an attempt to lighten the mood a bit.

            “Everyone from Witcham is,” Stan replies, trying for a cheesy grin that follows along with Bill’s attempt to rid the air of whatever tension that had developed. Lightly, Bill laughs, pushing off the counter and making his way to his room, most likely to get to work on unpacking his bags. As Stan does the same, pushing open his own bedroom door and eyeing his unopened luggage in distaste, he can’t help but send a thank you to whatever higher power there may or may not be for giving him a roommate who has so far proven to be nothing but kind.

 

 

 

 

            The brunet with a secret promise, as Eddie quickly learns, is named Richie Tozier, and Richie Tozier, as Eddie _also_ quickly learns, is a very odd and somewhat intriguing human being.

            So far, they’ve only spoken briefly, mostly just to introduce themselves and figure out who wants which bed, to which Richie just shrugged and said, “You can pick whichever you want, I don’t mind.” Eddie was wary for a moment, but then he did just that and stacked his bags on the bed on the left side of the room. At one point, Richie asked if Eddie cared about him playing music, and when Eddie said no, he happily pulled out his phone and put on a strange song that had no words. It was confusing at first, but it was relaxing to listen to, so Eddie didn’t really mind.

            By now, it’s been at least two hours since Richie got here, nearing on three, and while Eddie has been leisurely unpacking, folding his clothes and putting them away in one of the two dressers and making sure to keep his shirts hung up on one side of the closet, Richie has barely moved a muscle, splayed on his bed with his phone in his hands, bopping his head along to whatever song that comes on. Some of them are soft and relaxing, like the first one that had been played, whilst others are loud and crude, the rest falling somewhere in between. Whenever Eddie looks over his shoulder, his curiosity getting the best of him as it always does, Richie is staring at the screen of his phone, looking intently focused on whatever it is that he’s looking at – judging by the fact that his fingers tap against the screen every few minutes, Eddie assumes it’s a conversation of sorts. He would question it, but they’ve barely shared more than two sentences between one another, and even his natural nosiness knows better than to do something like that. Instead, he tries to focus on unpacking, taking a few trips to get his toiletries into the bathroom and even going as far as to organize them on the shelves provided in the shower (a ridiculously small dorm, yes, but the bathroom isn’t too bad, and at least they don't have to share with the other thirty-something scholar students), but he finds it impossible to ignore the urge to just say something when he leaves the restroom and falls on his bed, all of his stuff officially put away, save for a few things in his backpack that he hasn’t bothered to take out yet, and the smaller suitcase sitting by the foot of his bed expectantly – his art bag, which he doesn’t need to open up quite yet. Brows drawn together, he takes a moment to examine Richie again, this time not bothering to hide it, before he finally gives in and asks, “Aren’t you gonna unpack?”

            “Wasn’t planning on it,” is Richie’s immediate answer, his gaze very briefly flickering away from his phone in order to meet Eddie’s eyes. He offers a lopsided grin and lifts one of his shoulders in a small, barely-noticeable shrug. “In case you haven’t noticed, I only have a backpack with me. The rest of my junk is still at home.”

            Frowning, Eddie looks around and for the first time takes notice to Richie’s lack of luggage, finding that Richie isn’t exaggerating when he says he only has the one bag. “Is the rest getting shipped or something, ‘cause there’s no way you can go the entire school year with just that.”

            Richie hums, high pitched and drawn out while he finishes typing something on his phone before turning the screen off and letting it fall on the mattress besides him, kicking a leg out to nudge the backpack as he asks, “Ya’ think? I dunno, I could probably make it work.” At Eddie’s crinkled nose, Richie lets out a light laugh, shaking his head before saying, “I live in Witcham, don’t worry. It’s less than two hours away from here. The rest of my stuff is gonna be here tomorrow, but since Stan is the driver between us, I told him to just pack as much of his shit into the car as he could and that we could worry about my shit later. But honestly, I’m probably not gonna bring a whole lot here, anyway.”

            “Why not?” Eddie questions, his frown lessening slightly, but the ends of his lips stay tugged down just enough to make his confusion clear.

            “’Cause I’m not gonna be here that often,” Richie answers simply, as though it’s obvious, which Eddie thinks is a bit unfair considering the fact that he knows exactly three things about Richie – his name, the fact that his friend is named Stan, and the fact that he’s apparently from a town called Witcham that’s less than two hours away. When Eddie doesn’t respond for a minute, Richie cocks his head to the side and decides to change the subject, his fingers tapping against his thigh with the beat of whatever song it is that just came on shuffle. “So, what’s your major?”

            Eddie falters, once again glancing down to Richie’s backpack as he wonders what, exactly, Richie means by the fact that he’s not going to be here often, but he opts to drop it for now, instead bracing his hands on his bed behind him and leaning back, kicking his legs out absentmindedly. “Art. Drawing and painting, to be specific.”

            Letting out a little _ooh_ , Richie leans forward, looking genuinely excited. “Wait, really? That’s badass! Did you know that we’re allowed to paint our dorms as long as we paint back over it at the end of the year? You can totally deck this place out!”

            “Maybe,” Eddie shrugs, though he does take a quick sweep over the room – he did know that they can paint the walls however they see fit, but he wasn’t sure if his roommate would be okay with it. Guess that problem is solved, then. Turning his attention back to Richie, he asks, “What about you? What’re you here for?”

            “Me?” Richie huffs out a little laugh, and Eddie doesn’t see what he’s laughing at but he opts to keep quiet about that, at least for the time being. “I’m a dancer, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here ‘cause Stan’s here and they offered me a scholarship. If it weren’t for those two things, I’d still be back home in Witcham.”

            This makes Eddie freeze, his eyes narrowing down slightly, and in that moment there’s a lot of things that fly through his head, the first being a flashback to how hard he worked to get accepted here. How he spent months stressing over whether or not his application was good enough, considering sending an email and asking to try again, desperate for the chance to get away from Chicago, to get away from his mother, and pursue a career in something he loves. And, apparently, Richie is only bothering to attend because he got lucky and he wants to be with his friend.

            Something about that doesn’t seem very fair. It makes Eddie’s skin crawl.

            “So, you’re attending the top college for the arts in the country,” Eddie says, the words falling from his mouth before he can think them over, and he can see the way Richie’s smile falters at his cold tone. “A college that people break their backs to try and get into, and the only reason you want to be here is because it’s free and your friend is here? That’s complete bullshit.”

            Blinking slowly, Richie takes a moment to respond, looking as though he can’t decipher whether he should be offended or amused. “I don’t want to be here at all,” is what he eventually settles on saying, and he says it in a way that makes it sound like he thinks that’ll help the situation, but it only makes Eddie grind his teeth in frustration. “But it’s because—”

            “You don’t want to be here?” Eddie interrupts incredulously, and part of him wants to push himself to his feet and pace, but that’s something his mother used to do and he doesn’t want to resemble her in the slightest, so instead he curls his hands into balled up fists at his sides, fingernails digging into his palms as he grits out, “If you didn’t want to be here, you should have said no when they offered you a scholarship so that someone who cares could have gotten in instead.”

            “Okay, hold on a sec,” Richie breathes out through a chuckle, holding his hands up in front of him in some kind of surrender. His features are twisted up in confusion, clearly lost on how the topic ended up here. “I _do_ care, but there’s a fucking shit-ton more to it than just that, alright? You don’t know shit about me, you can’t just—”

            Eddie barks out a loud, humorless laugh, and he can’t stop himself from standing suddenly, but he makes sure to keep his feet planted to the ground as he glowers down at Richie. “I know that you’re here for the wrong reasons! That’s about all I need to know!”

            Copying Eddie’s actions, Richie also pushes himself to his feet, but he’s a lot less aggressive about it, still looking at Eddie like a lost puppy trying to navigate it’s way through a maze. Once he’s standing, he puts his arms back out in front of him to keep that look of surrender. “Dude, it’s not like I hate the idea of being here, it’s just because there’s other shit, okay? But I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you when we literally met, like, an hour ago, alright? Just calm down, man.”

            “Three,” Eddie corrects, glancing down at his watch just to confirm with himself that he has the time right.

            Even more confused, Richie lowers his hands slightly, brows furrowing together. “What?”

            “Three hours ago,” Eddie elaborates, crossing his arms over his chest and angling his chin up just slightly. He’s still beyond pissed, and he refuses to let his anger seem dwarfed just because this guy is five or six inches taller than him. “You got here at two, asshole. It’s past five.”

            “Oh, _shit_ ,” Richie hisses, seemingly throwing the entire previous topic away as he spins around and grapples for his phone, cursing under his breath as he goes. Eddie watches, his frustration subsiding slightly as curiosity sets in, but he bites down on his tongue to keep himself to blurting out any questions. He just made a big statement out of not needing to know anything else about Richie, he can’t go and ruin that by immediately asking to know more. Besides, it’s quickly proven that there’s no reason for him to ask, as Richie quickly turns back around and rushes out, “I have to go.”

            Grimacing, Eddie cocks an eyebrow and shakes his head. “You have to go?”

            “Yeah, I have to go,” Richie repeats, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet as he looks expectantly at Eddie. “Well? Anything else you wanna say before I leave? ‘Cause I’m not gonna be back until tomorrow, and I’d really rather not let this fester overnight and turn into something ugly. Just yell at me now, get it over with, and I’ll bring donuts or something as an apology for whatever the fuck I did to piss you off so bad.”

            “Are you kidding me?” Eddie scoffs. “If you don’t even know why I’m mad, then I can tell you right now that no amount of yelling or apologizing will do shit.”

            Richie looks down at his phone, seemingly unconcerned. “Okay, well, try not to go to bed angry, ‘cause that never ends well and I’d rather not be responsible for you having nightmares or not getting enough sleep. I’ll still bring donuts when I come back, and you can have some if you want, but if you’ve got nothing else to say, then I really have to blast. So, are we good?”

            Eddie blinks at him, more baffled than angry at this point. “No. No, we’re not good.”

            “Cool,” Richie says, not at all bothered as he quickly makes his way to the door. He pulls it open and steps into the hall, but he spins around quickly to add, “It was nice to meet you! Goodnight, Eddie!”

            In the silence that follows the door clicking shut, Eddie lets out a long sigh and scrubs a hand over his face. His first year is already proving to be much more complicated than he anticipated, and classes haven't even started yet. Briefly, he wonders if it'd be possible to switch roommates with someone else, but he quickly shrugs that thought away - the process would be far too difficult, he knows. He'll just suck it up and avoid interacting with Richie Tozier as much as he possibly can.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify: the first scene of the chapter is based on a Wednesday, on the third day of classes. The second scene transitions from that same Wednesday to the following Thursday. The rest of the scenes take place that Thursday. In terms to the first chapter, this is placed less than a week after. The bigger time skips will start with the third chapter, which is be based in October.
> 
> Also, I was going to wait until the next Friday to post the second chapter since updates are on Fridays, but I hit 1k followers on Tumblr and decided to post it early in celebration.

            Looking back on it, Richie believes he had every right to weigh the pros and cons of attending Kenduskeag for as long as he did. Of course, if someone were to ask his parents about it – or, even better, if someone were to ask _Stan_ about it – they would disagree, saying that he unnecessarily drug on his decision-making process for far too long, resulting in two months of nail-biting anticipation until, finally, he announced that he’d accept the scholarship that had been offered to him. His mother wept in joy, his stepmom looked semi-proud and semi-indifferent, his father pretended that he wasn’t tearing up when he very obviously was, and Stan looked equal parts elated and ready to punch Richie for taking so god damn long. Up until this point, Richie has actively defended the amount of time he took, but now he wishes he had been a bit faster, if only for the sake that he’s now stuck in a class that he feels completely out of place in.

            Part of being a scholarship student means having a list of guidelines that regular paying students don’t have to follow. For instance, every scholarship student has to take at least four classes every single quarter (except for summer quarter, where classes are limited and optional), whether or not it actually has to do with their intended major. Due to how late Richie accepted the scholarship, at least half the offered classes at Kenduskeag had already been full when he went to sign up for Fall quarter. Thankfully, he was able to get three actual dance-related classes, but with his obligatory fourth class, he didn’t get so lucky.

            Which is why, on the third day of classes, his body still aching from the hour of his daily Body Conditioning class he just finished, Richie makes his way into Introduction to Painting. Upon entering, he can feel an anxious sort of dread bubble in his chest as he looks around at all the other students in the room, all of them chatting excitedly to one another. He can only hope that the professor will understand that he’s not actually a painter and will be generous when his work ends up being very less than ideal. Ducking his head, he shuffles his way to the only empty table pushed against the wall across from the door, tossing his bag onto the floor besides an empty chair before falling into the seat, letting out a little huff of air that’s only somewhat irritated as he kicks his feet out and scuffs his shoes against the floor.

            He supposes, if there’s any sort of bright side to this, it’s that this class is only on Wednesday’s, so he’ll only have to deal with it once a week. If he’s lucky, it’ll go by quick and the quarter will be over before he knows it.

            “What the fuck are you doing here? I thought you were a dance major.”

            Or, if he’s even luckier (or, perhaps, unlucky, depending on who you ask), Eddie Kaspbrak will be in this class with him.

            Forcing out a smile that he feels much to tired to be sporting, Richie lulls his head to the side to look up at the slightly red-faced and clearly bewildered Eddie looming over him, exclaiming, “Roomie! Fancy meeting you here!”

            “Really?” Eddie deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest with a little pucker-lipped frown, but Richie can see the glint of satisfaction in his eyes at the fact that he’s the taller one at this point in time. Richie considers standing up just to see how he’d react, but his Body Conditioning teacher didn’t bother to ease them in despite it being the first week, so instead of forcing his sore limbs to move he opts to raise his eyebrows and hope that it conveys the fact that he’s _definitely_ taller between the two of them. Either ignoring Richie’s look, or rather just not understanding what it means in the first place, Eddie goes on to gesture around the room and say, “This is an art class for painters, and I’m an art major. It makes perfect sense for me to be in this class. You’re the jackass dancer who doesn’t want to be at this school in the first place, so I’m gonna ask again, what the fuck are you doing here?”

            “Needed a fourth class,” Richie shrugs, and Eddie’s features pinch up in some kind of exasperated frustration that Richie can’t exactly place. That’s been a constant since their little altercation on Friday, the days leading up to now filled with brief moments of tension that Richie doesn’t understand. He really did bring donuts on Saturday, too, and he left them on his bed with the lid of the box thrown open just to make the message clear that they were up for grabs if Eddie so desired, but Eddie was persistent on pretending that Richie and his donuts didn’t even exist. Which is probably easy, since Richie still hasn’t stayed in their dorm overnight, but still. He’s done something to push Eddie’s buttons and he can’t grasp what it is, but that doesn’t mean he has to treat Eddie with the same obvious distaste that Eddie has been treating him, so instead of letting this moment fall into back-and-forth bickering, Richie scoots down a chair and pats his hand on the one he had been sitting in. “C’mon, have a seat. Join me at my loner table.”

            Eddie’s frown deepens as he curtly shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

            Brows twitching together slightly, Richie makes a show of sweeping his gaze over the room before saying, “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this is the only available seat now, so you kind of have to. Unless you want to stand the whole time, which, I mean, that doesn’t sound practical, but I’ll support you if that’s really what you wanna do—”

            “Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose before taking a quick look around, his features pained when he realizes that there really isn’t another place for him to sit. “Move your hand, jackass,” he grumbles, reluctantly dropping his backpack onto the tabletop before falling into the seat, even going as far as to scoot his chair over a few inches to put more space between them.

            “Wow. You really don’t like me, huh?” Richie muses, and his tone is kind of joking, kind of curious, but the thought lays a little heavy against his ribcage, because he’s always been the kind of person who wants to make people laugh, and this isn’t exactly a humorous kind of reaction, now is it?

            Huffing out the wrong kind of laugh, a laugh that’s not really a laugh, Eddie slumps down in his chair and keeps his gaze glued to the front of the room despite the fact that there’s nothing to look at there. “Thought that was obvious,” he murmurs.

            Unable to help himself, Richie asks, “Can I know why, or…?

            Blinking slowly, Eddie quickly glances towards Richie with his eyes narrowed down into a confused glare, as if he believes that answer should be obvious – and maybe it is, but Richie just can’t see it – before going back to staring blankly ahead, his jaw visibly clenching as he grinds his teeth together. After a long pause, he says, “Figure it out,” and then he seals his lips together to signify that their conversation is over.

            Richie frowns, but he figures that he has no other choice but to do just that. With a quick glance around the room to make sure there’s no sign of class starting quite yet, he leans his elbow against the table and rests his face in his palm, playing back Friday afternoon in his mind. If he remembers correctly, things had gone sour when Eddie asked him about why he was here, and he answered honestly – because of Stan and the scholarship. That’s when Eddie had gone from a pleasant person to talk with to someone who looked ready to tear Richie’s head off in a span of fifteen god damn seconds. It happened so fast that Richie remembers reeling at how monotone Eddie’s voice had gotten – a quality that has stayed consistent since, Richie’s come to notice.

            So, what is it about his answer that had pushed Eddie’s buttons and made him pin Richie as some kind of asshole?

            He’s quickly drawn out of his thoughts by the door opening, their teacher briskly walking in with a wide smile of her face and cheery greetings falling from her lips. Pushing the subject onto the back burner for now, he decides to lean over and meekly offer, “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

            “If you’re really sorry, then you won’t talk to me in this class unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Eddie coldly responds under his breath without a moment of hesitation, keeping his gaze trained on the teacher as she comes to a stop in the center of the room, addressing them all. Richie can’t focus on a word she says, instead just slumping back in his chair and letting out a quiet sigh, silently hoping that he didn’t already fuck up what could have been a perfectly good friendship with the person he’ll be semi-living with until June.

 

 

 

 

            “You have one week.”

            Mike hums lightly in the back of his throat, fingers fiddling absentmindedly with his father’s old camera – the one that he was wearing around his neck back on Friday, the one that hinted Ben towards the fact that he’s here for photography. It was a parting gift to celebrate Mike leaving for his second year at Kenduskeag, one that was given to him at the airport before he flew from Kansas to Oregon. It’s only his third day of classes, but this one, Recreational Photography, is already his favorite, one that he’s probably going to make sure he takes all year. It’s a step up from the many introductory classes he took last year, but it’s not as complicated as the more advanced classes he’s starting this year. Plus, the professor, a Mrs. Alexandra Smith, has prove to be very kind so far, sharing her passion for her art with her students and already making her classroom feel warm and comfortable.

            “One week,” Mrs. Smith repeats, holding up a single finger to reiterate her point, her gaze sweeping over the room to meet the eyes of everyone briefly. “One week, six pictures.” Lower her hand, she explains, “They don’t have to be perfect, they don’t even have to be good, but they have to have one thing in common. _Adventure_.”

            A few tables in front of Mike, another one of the students – Greta Bowie, a fellow sophomore who Mike’s never spoken to before but has seen around campus plenty of times – raises her hand and asks, “What do you mean by adventure?”

            Mrs. Smith lets out a little laugh and shakes her head, leaning forward, her hands palm-down on her desk, and answers, “It’s not what _I_ mean that matters. The only guidelines for this assignment are that you have to take six pictures, and each picture has to have something to do with adventure. Take that as you will and have them printed out and ready to turn in by Wednesday. Can you guys do that?”

            A soft murmur passes through the room, a quiet and simultaneous agreement. In the back of Mike’s mind, he’s already conjuring up a plan of action for obtaining these photos, tightening his grip on the old camera in his hands as he does so. Adventure is an easy task for him and his friends, but he thinks he wants to do something a little bit different – something new. After all, Ben ended up opting out of that breakfast on Saturday, saying he didn’t want to intrude on Mike’s reunion with Beverly and Bill, but Mike still wants them to meet and Ben said he still wants to meet them. He also wants to meet Bill’s new roommate, who apparently has a friend that Bill already met that Bill could only describe as eccentric, which was, and still is, a very intriguing description to Mike. And maybe Beverly can convince Audra to come along, too! After all, that poor girl has been excluded enough, Mike would love to include her in something and see if it makes her smile. He remembers seeing her smile every time they passed each other in the hallway last year, but ever since those rumors, her smiling habits have practically vanished.

            He thinks about this for the last ten minutes of class, and he keeps thinking about it on his way back to his dorm, mulling over various ideas in his head. There’s many ways to approach this – he could wait until the weekend and try to get them all together, perhaps, but there’s a good chance someone will be busy and he really wants this to work out in a way where he can get everyone to come along, giving him a chance to meet all the newbies and also get some good pictures in the process. He could ask to go somewhere right now, but Bill told him his Short Stories class goes on until three, and he doesn’t know every else’s schedules yet. However, he _does_ know that classes don’t go past five at Kenduskeag, and with a day’s warning he sees no reason why it couldn’t work…

            Coming to a conclusion, Mike falters outside of his dorm room in order to take out his phone and send a text to both Bill and Beverly, quickly explaining what he wants to do. Thankfully, they both text back quickly to say they’d love to come and will ask their respective roommates about joining when they can and get back to him. Satisfied by that, Mike shoves his phone back into his pocket and pushes open the door, immediately asking, “What time are your classes tomorrow?” when he sees Ben poised on the sofa with a notebook in his lap, pen hovering over the page as he looks up at Mike in shock. There’s a glint of uncertainty in his eyes, showing his unsettled anxieties, the dilemma of being able to tell if Mike really wants to be his friend or if Mike is simply pitying him because he’s some poor, lonely freshman. Mike has every intention of gaining Ben’s trust and proving that he really, truly does want to be friends, but he knows it will take some time to do.

            “Just an introduction to creative writing class from ten to noon,” Ben cautiously answers, shifting in his seat as he slowly blinks, confused. “Why?”

            Mike grins excitedly, and he knows that Ben is still very much wary no matter how hard he tries not to be – wary of Mike, wary of Kenduskeag, wary of being so far from home, wary of this new college life – which is exactly why Mike points as Ben and says, “You,” points to himself and says, “me,” and then jabs his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the still open door behind him before finishing, “and a few my friends. I don’t know where we’re going, but we’re going somewhere, and we’re going together, and I’m taking pictures. You on board?”

            Ben stammers, clearly caught off by the invitation, his face burning a bright red blush from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, but nothing comes out, so he settles for a nervous nod – he still wants to meet Mike’s friends, that hasn’t changed, but he’s still afraid that they won’t like him or that he’ll do something wrong to mess it all up. Even with this fear, though, he can’t help but smile when Mike beams at him.

            “Don’t worry, Ben,” Mike tells him, as if sensing his anxieties as he falls into the empty seat on the sofa and ruffling Ben’s hair affectionately. “My friends are gonna love you. You’ll fit right in.”

            Again, Ben nods, not trusting his voice, and as he thinks about how kind Mike has been to him, he finds himself calming down, and as the night goes on and the next day comes, whatever nerves he had before turn into genuine excitement. He can see that Mike is excited, too, can tell in the way he has a little pep in his step when he leaves for his classes for the day, and when Ben comes back to their dorm after his introduction to creative writing class, Mike is already there, grinning down at his phone with his knee bouncing impatiently. Upon Ben’s entrance, he leaps to his feet, and Ben can’t help but let out a little laugh as he muses, “You look like a kid on Christmas.”

            “I feel like one, too,” Mike says, putting his phone in his pocket and picking his camera up off the couch in order to let it hang from a strap around his neck before looking back to Ben. “So, I guess Bill’s roommate has class until three, and he’s gonna bring his friend, but I figured you could still meet Bill and Beverly, if that’s cool? They’re both hanging out at Bill’s dorm right now and they said we can join them, if you want. Just, like- since you were gonna meet them Saturday but decided not to, this would give you a chance to meet them alone, you know? Maybe make it a little less overwhelming, since even I haven’t met the other two yet and I have a feeling it’d be easier for you to ease into it a little bit.” A bit surprised by this, Ben blinks at him, unsure of how to respond. Something seems to click in Mike’s head then, and a twinge of panic glazes over his eyes as he quickly adds, “Not that I- I mean, I’m not trying to assume, you know? Like, we haven’t even known each other for a week, I thought- well, I shouldn’t have thought, so- just—” He cuts off, bringing a hand up to press his palm to his forehead, looking flabbergasted with himself. “Sorry. I just meant, you know- you seemed so timid when we met, and I just figured if you were that on edge with one person, then meeting four might, I dunno, overwhelm you? But if I read that wrong, I’m really sorry and you can feel free to punch me in the face or something. I should have just asked.”

            “I definitely don’t want to punch you,” Ben promises, his face breaking out in a bright, uncontrollable grin that makes Mike falter in shock, though the panic quickly edges away when he sees that Ben isn’t offended. “If anything, I’m pretty glad you’re my roommate. No one’s ever bothered to be that thoughtful for me before, so, uh… thanks, Mike.”

            Mike returns the grin with one of his own and gestures toward the door, flickers of excitement dancing in his eyes. “In that case, what do you say? You wanna go meet those two idiots I call my best friends?”

            Stepping aside, Ben says, “Lead the way.”

 

 

 

 

            When Beverly pushes open the door to her dorm, she does so gingerly, her brows furrowed together in thought and a sheet of paper clutched tightly in her hand, thoughts running a hundred miles per minute. Part of her is relieved to find that Audra is already inside, sitting on the kitchen counter and swinging her legs back and forth absentmindedly as she looks at something on her phone, but part of her also dreads her roommates presence. She was hoping for an empty dorm to give her time to think this through, but it appears the universe is trying to spell her decision out for her.

            At the sounds of the door opening and closing, Audra looks up and smiles, and there’s something in that smile that solidifies what Beverly is considering to do, because outside of this dorm, when she isn’t on stage, Audra never looks happy. She looks like she doesn’t want to be there. She looks ready to crumble underneath the stares of all the other students that watch her walk by, and Beverly thinks that maybe, with this, she can do something about that. Which is why, before Audra is able to even utter a simple greeting, Beverly blurts out, “I need to ask you something.”

            “Oh.” Audra hesitates, her smile falling into something more panicked and confused. Slowly, she slides herself off counter and nods, looking uncertain. “What is it?”

            “It kind of has something to do with the rumors,” Beverly says, feeling as though a warning may be necessary in order to not catch Audra completely off guard, but if the way she reaches back and grips onto the edge of the counter until her knuckles turn white is anything to go by, the warning doesn’t help. Nervously, Beverly brings a hand up to chew on her thumb nail, using her other hand to gesture towards the sofa across the room. “Can we sit? Please?”

            Silently, Audra nods, taking a moment before pushing off the counter and rounding the table separating the kitchen and the living room. Beverly follows, fingers playing with the corners of the paper she’s holding as she sits on one end of the couch, Audra seated on the other end with her arms crossed over his chest, already looking guarded. Quietly, she asks, “Are you gonna ask me about them? Because you’re the one who said it’s my business and nobody else’s.”

            Quickly shaking her head, Beverly assures, “No, I’m not gonna- or, at least, not _yet_. Not unless you agree to this.” With these words, Audra’s shoulder slump slightly, losing some of the defensive posture from before as she looks to Beverly curiously. “Um…” Beverly trails off, looking down at the paper again and trying to figure out how to word what she wants to say. After a moment, she decides that explaining the situation from the beginning is the best option, so she looks back up, meets Audra’s eyes, and says, “So, for my intermediate filmmaking class, my professor decided to try and challenge us with different genres of films. He, uh, had us pull from a hat, and whatever we got, we have to make a short movie in that genre and show it at the Fall Quarter Final Show.”

            “Okay…?” Audra shakes her head, baffled. “What does this have to do with the rumors?”

            “When I pulled,” Beverly goes on, tone now even softer, and she hopes that this is a good idea, hopes that Audra won’t take offense to what it is she wishes to do, “I got documentary, and I… I dunno, maybe this won’t sound like a good idea to you, and I’m sorry, but… I just- I thought, you know, maybe I could, uh—” Beverly pauses, brows drawn together as she clears her throat and tries to shake her anxieties from her mind. “I thought that I could make the documentary about you, and give you a chance to explain your side of everything that happened, you know? And maybe, uh- maybe then people will stop treating you so badly, because they’ll know the whole story. Is that- I mean… does that make sense?”

            For a long, tense moment, Audra doesn’t answer, instead watching Beverly like a hawk, a million different emotions flickering through her grey eyes so fast that Beverly can’t even attempt to read them. Biting down on her tongue, Beverly waits as Audra slowly processes the offer, and then, in a voice so soft and meek that Beverly can’t tell if it’s out of offense or awe, she asks, “You want to make a documentary… about me?”

            Beverly nods, flattening the paper in her lap and hoping that this reaction is a good one. There’s no yelling, so that’s a plus. If Audra’s angry, she isn’t showing it, which is also a positive sign, Beverly thinks. “I want to remind people how stupid rumors are,” she says, sinking her teeth into her lower lip before expending the paper out. “I even, uh… I thought of a name, and wrote down some ideas of stuff we could address in it, but it’s up to you, obviously. If you even agree to do this, then what we do and do not talk about in it is your decision.”

            Gingerly, Audra takes the offered paper, spinning it around until it’s right side up and she can rake her eyes over the words written there. Her slightly parted lips twitch up into a little smile at what she reads. “The Misunderstood of Kenduskeag?”

            “Yeah,” Beverly shrugs, trying not to sound as bashful as she feels. “’Cause, like I told you, my friends and I call ourselves the losers of Kenduskeag, and giving yourself a title like that… it’s kind of empowering, I guess? So, like, whenever someone tries to insult me or talk down on my work, I just don’t even care because I’m a loser and I love being a loser. And, again, everything on the page is changeable. Like, I know I’d be the one making the movie, but you’d be in charge, okay? I promise.”

            “I…” Audra trails off, and that soft, barely-there smile is still present, but so is the twitch in her brows, the confusion in her eyes, the way her jaw clenches when she swallows the lump in her throat. Looking back at Beverly, Audra shakes her head, trying to wrap her head around the situation. “Why, uh… why are you doing this? Why do you _want_ to do this?”

            At that, Beverly hesitates, her lips twitching down into a frown and then up into a sheepish half-smile, one that’s more of an attempt to keep the air a little lighter as she leans back slightly and averts her gaze to the ground. “I’m familiar with rumors,” she answers honestly. “Not to the same extent as you, but, you know… high school wasn’t fun, and when the rumors got back to my dad, things went to shit. So, I guess I just… I know how shitty it is to be defined by rumors without getting the chance to tell the whole story, and I hated hearing about what happened last year and I wanted to help somehow but I didn’t exactly know you, but now I do, and if you’ll let me, I want to give you the chance to defend yourself.”

            Slowly, looking almost groggy with her movements, Audra stares back down at the paper, running her fingers over the scribbled down words with a kind of tenderness that can only come from a moment of deep thought. Beverly holds her breath for a moment, but her lungs aren’t too strong so she lets it out and instead taps her fingers against her knees in anticipation instead, hoping that by asking this she isn’t crossing a line, that she didn’t already ruin what looked to be a promising friendship less than a week into it. After a solid minute of silence, Audra looks up again, and her eyes are glimmering slightly with what could either be wonder or tears, or perhaps a combination of the two, and she says, “Okay.”

            “Okay?” Beverly repeats, kind of breathless with relief. “Is that a yes? Like, you want to do it?”

            “Yeah, I want to make a documentary,” Audra nods, and now she grins, some strands of hair falling in her face as she does so. Raising a hand, she points a finger at Beverly threateningly and warns, “If you don’t get an A on this project, I’m kicking your professor’s ass, though.”

            Barking out a little laugh, Beverly assures, “Oh, trust me, this’ll get an A. You’ve never watched my work before, but you’ll see. It’s gonna be incredible.” With that, she pushes herself back up to her feet and says, “Alright, I gotta go. We can talk more about this tonight or tomorrow or something, if that’s okay? Just to start brainstorming, get some more ideas, figure out how to do this. We have until December to get this done, but the sooner we can start, the better.”

            “That’s fine with me.” Audra doesn’t follow Beverly’s lead in standing, but she does look up at Beverly and offer a much more gentle smile, and when Beverly spins around to make her way to Bill’s dorm, she thinks that her heart just might be beating a little bit faster than normal.

 

 

 

 

            Gripping the small, empty notebook in his hand, Eddie sits on the edge of his bed with a sigh, brows drawn together as he lets his backpack fall carelessly to the floor. An art book, his teacher had said, but this feels much more daunting than any art book he’s had, because this one has a time limit. It has to be full by the end of the quarter, and it, along with all the other pieces done by art majors, will be displayed at the Fall Quarter Final Show. Staring down at the object, flipping it over and over in his hands with a small, uncertain frown, murmuring to himself, “What the fuck even _is_ a final show?”

            “The Final Shows?” Richie’s voice speaks up, causing Eddie to jump in shock, his head whipping up to see Richie casually lounging on his own bed. Eddie blinks, not sure how he missed his presence upon entering, but Richie doesn’t seem to notice Eddie’s surprise as he waves an arm out in front of him and says, “I don’t really know the specifics, but some of the other people in class were saying it’s, like, this school’s version of finals. So, like, instead of taking a test, we show off our art. Everyone has to contribute to it somehow to show that they’re learning and developing.”

            “I didn’t ask you,” Eddie deadpans.

            With a shrug, Richie drops his hands to his stomach and replies, “Maybe not, but there’s no one else in here. You’re welcome for the answer, by the way. Sorry I don’t know the details, or else I would tell you more.” He lifts his head, eyes brightening, and snaps his fingers together in some kind of realization. “Oh! Stan’s roommate’s a sophomore, I could probably ask him and get back to you.”

            Eyes narrowing down in irritation, Eddie lets out a low huff, and part of him knows it isn’t fair – knows that, as much as he may dislike Richie, as much as he hates his carefree attitude and lack of caring in general, that Richie is clearly trying to be friendly – but he still can’t stop himself from gritting out, “I don’t need you to get back to me on shit, Tozier. I can figure it out myself, thanks.”

            Raising his hands out in surrender, Richie murmurs, “Jesus, fine, sorry. Just trying to help.”

            “And I don’t need your help, so feel free to stop,” Eddie states coldly.

            “You wanna go on an adventure?” Richie asks, as if Eddie isn’t currently glaring at him from across the room.

            Eddie blinks, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

            “An adventure,” Richie repeats, lulling his head to the side and grinning at Eddie in a way that makes it seem like this is regular chit-chat between two friends rather than a conversation with someone who quite literally hates his guts. “Again, I don’t know the details, but Stan’s roommate, Bill? He has a photographer friend who wants to go out today to get some pictures for an assignment. I wasn’t gonna go, but Stan said I have no choice, and if you’re not busy, I guess Bill’s friend said the more the merrier, so you can come with us, if you want. You can ignore me the whole time, if that’ll float your boat.”

            When Eddie parts his lips, no sound comes out, leaving him gaping silently at Richie in shock. He can’t decide if he should be upset or not, because what the fuck? What the _fuck?_ His asshole roommate, who he has openly admitted to not liking multiple times now, is inviting him to hang out with his friends? That’s not supposed to happen, is it? How is he supposed to react? What the fuck?!

            In the lapse of silence, Richie lets out a loud breath and adds, “You can just say yes or no, man. I just thought you might want to go.”

            “I don’t,” Eddie finally responds, though there is a hint of curiosity in his chest, a whisper in the back of his mind that says he _does_ want to go, if only for the chance to find out what will happen if he does. He ignores that curiosity and pushes the whisper away, instead setting his jaw and tearing his gaze away from Richie to look around the room. “I was gonna start painting the walls today, anyway. So even if I did want to go, which I _don’t_ , I wouldn’t be able to.”

            “Mhm,” Richie hums, looking so far from convinced that Eddie has to bite his tongue to stop himself from cursing him out. “Well, roomie, I’ll make you a deal.” Pushing himself to his feet, Richie turns around to sift through his backpack before pulling out a single piece of crumpled notebook paper and a pen, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he scribbles something down. Looking satisfied, he drops the pen back into his bag and spins back around to face Eddie as he explains, “If you get bored of making this place look pretty, you dial up this number,” he hands the paper to Eddie, who gingerly accepts it and stares down at the scrawled out digits with a frown, “and I’ll tell you where you can meet up with us. Or you can just text me for the hell of it, I don’t mind.”

            “I am _never_ going to text you,” Eddie says matter-of-factly, holding the paper away from him as if it has some kind of disease.

            Richie just snickers and makes his way back to his bed, taking his phone out of his pocket to look through the notifications there as he does so. “You don’t have to,” he says, glancing up to give Eddie a sparkly-eyed grin. “It’s just an option, in case you change your mind, or if you ever want me to bring you some dinner or something. Hate me all you want, but you should still have my number since we kind of live together.”

            “Do we?” Eddie asks, cocking his head to the side in faux-confusion, lilting his voice to sound sickly sweet. “Do we really live together? I mean, some of your stuff is here, I guess, but you’ve bussed back to your parents every night since we meet. It’s almost been a week and you still haven’t slept in what’s supposed to be your bed. So, honestly, does that count as living together, because it feels like you still live in Witcham.”

            At this, Richie pauses, his gaze flickering between Eddie and his phone with an unreadable expression, his lips pressed together in a straight line and his brows creased together. “You have no right to talk about stuff that you know nothing about,” he ends up saying after a long moment, and his voice isn’t exactly monotone, but it’s definitely a lot colder than it has been thus far. “I go home every night for a reason, and that’s my business, not yours.”

            Eddie falters, not knowing how to react to this contrast in Richie’s behavior, and it’s a little intimidating, really, the way Richie went from completely relaxed to bitter-toned and stone-faced. “Whatever,” he murmurs after a moment, not wanting to risk making the situation worse. Usually, he’d be all for raising his voice and bickering, but he can’t be bothered with that right now – not when he’s still holding an empty art book that he has no clue how he’s going to fill and the bare walls around him are a constant reminder of the paints he has sitting in his art bag by the end of the bed. Clearing his throat in an attempt to fill the silence, he gets to his feet and approaches said bag, crouching down to unzip it and look at the assortment within it, trying to pinpoint where he wants to start.

            Behind him, he can hear Richie shuffling around, but he doesn’t dare look back, doesn’t give in to the endless curiosity that burns within his chest when he’s around Richie, because he doesn’t want to be curious, he doesn’t like the fact that there’s a hundred questions threatening to fall from the tip of his tongue at any given moment. He’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep these questions at bay, because as strange and intriguing as Richie Tozier may be, above all that, he’s still someone who’s attending this school for the wrong reasons, and that is something Eddie will never be able to let go of.

            So, instead of giving into his curiosity, he plops the open bag onto his bed and starts pulling out the colors that catch his eye, setting the little travel-sized containers on his duvet with care. His bigger tubes and containers of paint are still back in Chicago, stacked up in his bedroom that he has no plans of ever returning to, and he’s still sad that he couldn’t bring them all due to not wanting to pay for having them shipped all the way to Oregon – he has a lot of wiggle room money-wise, the scholarship making it so he doesn’t have to use his college fund on actually attending college – but he still wants to be smart about it, and the cost of having his paints shipped isn’t worth the price. Besides, it’s not like his mom would cooperate with packing them up, no matter how much he begged. For now, these will have to do, and when he can find the time, he’ll go out and get some more.

            Stan shows up as Eddie is balanced precariously on his bed, a paint brush dipped in a rich blue in his hand, and he only knocks once before letting himself in, giving Eddie a once over before turning to Richie and asking, “You ready to head out?”

            “Good to go,” Richie says, his voice back to the regular happy-go-lucky tone that it usually holds. As he walks by, he reaches a hand out and pokes Eddie in the hip to get his attention, grinning when Eddie immediately glares down at him, nostrils flaring. “Don’t just throw my number away,” he says, his gaze flickering down to where the sheet of paper is still resting on Eddie’s bed, temporarily forgotten. “I mean it. You can hate me, but being able to get ahold of each other is a good idea in the long run. Got it?”

            “Yeah, got it, whatever,” Eddie dismisses, turning back to the wall and raising his brush to keep painting. Stan snorts, clearly amused by Eddie’s response, and as he pulls Richie out of the room by his wrist, Richie lets out a little laugh too, though he sounds a little more exasperated than anything else. Once the door is shut, Eddie lowers the brush again, his own eyes dropping to look at the paper on his bed, those digits glaring up at him, a sigh escaping his lips quietly.

            He should really just throw the damn thing away. It’d only take a second to crumple the paper into a ball and toss it into the small garbage in the bathroom, and then he’d never have to think about it again. Problem solved. Out of sight, out of mind.

            He saves Richie’s number as _piece of shit_ in his phone, and he promises himself he’ll never use it.

 

 

 

 

            “You have to perform a song?” Richie asks, his brows raised high, snatching the syllabus from Stan’s hand to scan over the printed out words with interest. “Like, a whole ass song, in front of the whole ass school, all by your whole ass self?”

            Letting out a bark of laughter, Stan nods, looking as though he’s considering snatching the paper back, but he ultimately decides against it as Richie turns it over in his hands to read the back. “Not just that, but it has to be an original song. Which makes sense, I guess, because it’s an introduction to songwriting class, but I’ve never been good at the writing-the-song part, you know? I can _play_ songs, yeah, but making them from scratch is a whole other thing.”

            Whistling under his breath, Richie hands the paper back to Stan and shoves his hands into his front pockets, head cocked to the side. “The last time you tried writing a song, your dad kicked you out of the house for two days,” he states as seriously as he can, but his façade breaks when Stan scoffs and shoves his shoulder, a wide grin on his face as he lets himself be pushed lightly to the side. “Okay, sorry, sorry! But seriously, what are you gonna write the song about? Do you have any ideas yet?”

            “No clue,” Stan sighs, folding the syllabus up and sliding it into his back pocket to nestle in besides his phone. “I have, like, three months to figure it out, though, so I’m not too worried.” They turn another corner, making their way to Stan’s dorm room, where Bill and his friends are already waiting for their arrival. Curious, he looks at Richie as asks, “What about you, huh? Have any of your classes mentioned a required performance for the show? Everyone has to do something for it.”

            “Not really, no,” Richie shrugs. “But my main class, intro to dance, is only on Friday’s and it’s supposed to go from ten to three, so I’m guessing I’ll hear about it tomorrow.”

            Stan crinkles his nose in distaste. “Five hours? That sounds like some kind of torture. Are you sure that’s even legal?”

            “You’ve spent way longer attached to your guitar, so don’t you dare try to lecture me,” Richie defends, pulling his hands from his pockets and raising them in front of him in surrender. “Besides, I’m in this school because of you, so you don’t get to be all judge-y about my classes, alright? I’m taking these classes because you made me come here. It’s your fault, Uris.”

            Rolling his eyes, Stan leads them around another corner, giving Richie an unimpressed look. “Oh, it’s my fault or telling you this isn’t an opportunity you should give up? That taking care of your family shouldn’t be your responsibility when you’re barely even an adult? That staying at home instead of pursuing something that you love and that you’re insanely good at is a bad idea? That—”

            “Alright, I get it, I get it!” Richie interrupts, holding his hands up even higher to prove his point. Stan cuts off with a huff, cocking an eyebrow at Richie, who sheepishly looks away and lifts one of his shoulders in some kind of half-shrug. “You’re right,” he reluctantly admits, ignoring the way Stan beams in reaction to his words. “I know you’re right, okay? It’s just- you know how it is, Stan. I hate being so far from them, you know? If something happens, it’ll take over an hour to get back. A lot of things can go wrong in an hour and a half.”

            “I get it,” Stan nods, “but you can still help out without putting all this weight on yourself. You’ve been holding yourself back for years and I’m not letting you do that anymore.” Coming to a stop outside of Stan’s dorm room, he faces Richie fully and adds, “Which is why, at the request of me, your best friend and non biological brother, you’re staying in your dorm tonight. No bussing back to Witcham after this, alright? Swear it.”

            Instantly, Richie parts his lips to argue, but he’s cut off by Stan raising a hand between them, pinky extended. Swallowing back the heavy lump of protests, Richie sighs, “Fine,” and hooks his pinky with Stan’s, though he makes sure to pout to show how against this that he really is.

            Before Richie can pull back, Stan shakes his head and says, “You know this this works, Rich. We’re not going anywhere until you promise the way that we promise.”

            “God, you’re annoying,” Richie grumbles, but his eyes are alight with amusement, fondness, and love as he straightens his shoulders and clears his throat. “I swear it,” he recites, ducking his head down to press a kiss to the pad of his thumb. Satisfied, Stan copies his actions, kissing his own thumb before pressing their fingertips together over their still intertwined pinkies. “You know we look ridiculous doing this, right?” Richie asks, waiting a moment longer before withdrawing his hand, though his grin is bright and happy even as he complains, “I mean, we’re _adults,_ Stanley. This isn’t a middle school hallway where everyone’s childish and stupid. We’re two grown ass men making pinky promises and kissing our thumbs. It’s weird.”

            “Yeah, well, it’s tradition,” Stan says, knowing that Richie’s whining isn’t real and that the both of them are too attached to their own version of promising to ever even try to change it. “And we may be eighteen, but you’re still a child.”

            “I’m a child?” Richie repeats with an incredulous laugh. “You may be able to play the role of an adult really well, but I _know_ you. You’re more childish than I am!”

            “That’s such _bullshit!”_ Stan scoffs, and both of them are too busy bickering to notice the door swinging open, only coming back down to reality when someone clears their throat to grab their attention.

            Jumping slightly, Stan turns around to find Bill standing in the doorway, wearing an amused expression as he glances between the two of them. “Oh, hey!” Richie chirps, clearly not bothered as he grins at Bill and lifts a hand to wave despite the fact that they’re standing less than two feet apart.

            Bill nods in greeting before stepping to the side to give them room to pass. “Richie, right?” he questions, waiting until they’re both inside before letting the door swing shut. When Richie nods, he turns to the other three people in the room, who neither Stan nor Richie noticed upon entering, and says, “Guys, this is my roommate,” he gestures to Stan, “and this is his friend,” he points to Richie. Then, facing Stan and Richie, he gestures to the other three people and points to the red head sitting on the edge of the sofa. “This is my friend Beverly,” he says, before moving his hand to point in the direction of the man sitting in the center of the sofa. “This is my friend Mike.” Then, pointing to the other man sitting on the opposite end of the sofa as Beverly and looking much more bashful than the first two, Bill finishes, “And this is Mike’s roommate, Ben.”

            Looking at these three strangers, Stan thinks four things at the exact same time. One: he saw Beverly in the hallway yesterday, and when they met eyes, she offered a friendly smile before walking past him. Two: Ben looks equal parts excited about being here and way out of his comfort zone, constantly fidgeting where he sits, fingers twisting and untwisting in his lap, eyes darting around the room, cheeks tinted a constant rosy red. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants to relax or if he wants to run from the room entirely. Three: the camera sitting in Mike’s lap looks way too vintage and expensive to be in his dorm room.

            Four: Mike is probably the most gorgeous person he has ever seen.

            “It’s nice to meet you guys,” Mike says, pushing himself to his feet with an excited grin that nearly sucks the air right out of Stan’s lungs with it’s sheer beauty, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he strides over and sticks his hand out. “I’m really glad you both agreed to come with us.”

            Richie looks at Stan, expecting him to say something first, and immediately suppresses a smug smile at the awe-struck look in Stan’s eyes. Deciding to save his friend some embarrassment, Richie accepts Mike’s hand first, shaking it enthusiastically as he replies, “You, too, man! Thanks for letting us tag along!”

            When Richie releases Mike’s hand, he turns to Stan expectantly, who can only manage a slow blink in response. Sinking his teeth into his lower lip to hold back a laugh, Richie subtly jabs an elbow into Stan’s side to revive him, which seems to work as he sucks in a sharp breath and shakes Mike’s hand while stammering out, “Yeah, uh- it’s, um- yeah.”

            Unable to help it, Richie audibly snickers, only to bite down on his tongue when Stan immediately kicks him in the shin to shut him up. Clearing his throat to try and cover up the little hiss of pain he made, Richie looks around the room and asks, “So, what exactly are we doing? Like, all I got from Stan was something about adventure and pictures, which could be anything from a trip to McDonalds to an orgy.”

            “It’s not an orgy,” Mike answers with a loud laugh, and Stan’s glad he turns away to sit back down on the couch because being in such close proximity to him was making his knees weak and he’s almost certain another thirty seconds and his legs would have given out completely. Once he’s settled back in his seat, Mike explains, “In my Recreational Photography class, we got an assignment to take six pictures that have something to do with adventure. I could have just gone out with Bill and Bev and gotten some photos of them, but I really wanted Ben to meet them and I also wanted a chance to meet Bill’s roommate, so I figured, why the hell not, you know?”

            “Mmm, I love being a tag-along,” Richie muses. “It’s my favorite activity, being the leech friend that always bugs everyone else and never leaves.”

            Beverly points at Richie. “I already like you.”

            Grinning, Richie places a hand over his heart and turns to Stan to stage-whisper, “She likes me!”

            “No one likes you,” Sta deadpans, shoving Richie away with mild interest, his eyes still embarrassingly trained on Mike the whole time. “Is there a plan, or are we just gonna hit the streets and walk around?”

            “I like you more,” Beverly snickers, moving her hand to point to Stan, resulting in Richie letting out a dramatic gasp of faux-betrayal that no one properly addresses.

            In response to Stan, Mike merely shrugs, throwing an arm around Ben’s shoulders as he says, “We’ll probably go to Wal-Mart and stop somewhere to get food, but otherwise there’s nothing set in stone. That’s kind of the point though, you know?” He leans forward slightly, and Stan is absolutely mesmerized by the way his brown eyes sparkle. “A good adventure is a spontaneous one.”

 

 

 

 

            By the time Eddie decides to set the brush down and settle in for the night, the sun’s long gone and his phone says it’s almost midnight. On the wall above his bed, there’s an admittedly sloppy painting of the ocean, one that Eddie knows could be better if he went a little slower, but it’s not like painting his wall is an assignment. For the most part, he’s just doing it so the room doesn’t look so empty when he’s in here by himself. A little bit of color doesn’t hurt, right?

            Putting the paints back into his art bag, Eddie has to stifle a yawn every few moments, his vision blurring with exhaustion as he occasionally glances up at his work with mild admiration. He doesn’t think he’s the best artist in the world, far from it actually, but he knows that he’s good and he knows how to step back and appreciate the talents he has. Sure, if he wanted to, he could get nit-picky about it and point out all the places where the stroke of the brush is noticeably off and the colors clash and what was supposed to be realism looks a bit more cartoonish, but it’s still relaxing. He thinks that falling asleep looking at it will be better than starting into empty air.

            He climbs into bed at twelve-fifteen, his eyelids feelings like sandpaper when he blinks and his limbs heavy with the need for sleep, thoughts slow and groggy. Before giving in, though, he reaches over and grabs his phone, squinting through the light in order to see his screen clearly. He fully intends on just sending a quick message to his mother to let her know he’s still alive and doing fine – not nearly enough in her eyes, but even just typing out these texts feels so much heavier than it should be. He never reads her responses or tries to initiate in actual conversation. He only waits until he knows she’ll be sleep, and then he sends a single message to soothe her most sizable of anxieties.

            However, when he unlocks his phone and it opens up to the last number added, the words _piece of shit_ catching him so off guard in his tired state of mind that he lets out a loud snort in the darkness of his room, he finds himself wanting to send a message. And he almost does, too, typing out a simple _hey_ that glares at him when he reads it over and over again, but before  he can press send, the door to his dorm room suddenly opens and sends his heart into his throat in fear, some kind of strangled noise sounding from the back of throat involuntarily as he moves to sit up.

            “Relax, it’s just me,” Richie’s voice sounds through the darkness, much more quiet than he usually is. Eddie’s heart calms for only a moment before picking up speed again. He chooses not to think about that, instead turning off his phone, unsent message forgotten, and settling back into his sheets with a little huffed out sigh. “Can I turn the light on? Just for, like, a minute, so I can grab a change of clothes.”

            “Yeah, whatever,” Eddie murmurs, though he has the right mind to close his eyes before the light flickers on, pulling his duvet up to his chin and burrowing his face further into his pillow. For a moment, all he can hear is Richie shuffling around before the light shuts off again. Curious, and too tired to stop himself, Eddie opens his eyes again and asks, “What’re you doing here?”

            Across the room, he can hear Richie clamber onto his own bed before answering, “Sleeping, hopefully. Nice painting, by the way. It looks really cool.”

            With some kind of noise that sounds more like a _humph_ than anything else, Eddie blinks slowly, as if that might make it so he could see – and he thinks it works, but then he realizes it’s just his eyes adjusting to the darkness, as the abyss in front of him slowly morphs into somewhat tangible silhouettes. Faintly, he can see the shape of Richie in his bed. “You’re actually sleeping here?”

            “Believe it or not, I don’t exactly live in Witcham anymore,” Richie responds softly. There’s something in his voice, a kind of sad little lilt that Eddie wants to find irritating but it kind of makes him want to ask more questions. He bites his tongue again and wills himself to fall asleep. “Plus,” Richie adds, “Stan made me promise not to go back tonight. I know you think I’m some jackass, but I take my promises very seriously. Especially Stan and I’s pinky promises.”

            “Pinky promises?” Eddie snorts at that, unable to hold it back. He hasn’t made a pinky promise since he was five-years-old, back before his dad died. Actually, thinking back on it, pinky promises were pretty important to him. He always made sure to keep them.

            Richie chuckles, too, a kind of half-laugh that dwindles off into a yawn, before he quietly replies, “Yeah, it’s kind of our thing. We’ve been doing it since we were kids and never stopped. It’s kind of stupid, I guess, but… I dunno. I like it.”

            Eddie doesn’t think it’s stupid, but he doesn’t say that, because he knows he should think it’s stupid. He should think everything that asshole Richie says is stupid, because Richie is, as stated so elegantly in his phone, a piece of shit, and Eddie has made it a rule in his life to not care about pieces of shit (though staying in contact with his mother seems to prove how well he follows that rule). What he does say, though, in a tone far too gentle for his own liking, is, “Thanks.”

            The silhouette of Richie shuffles, and Eddie thinks they’re facing each other now, but he opts to push that thought away. “For what?” Richie asks.

            “Thinking my painting looks cool,” Eddie supplies groggily, his eyelids fluttering shut again. He tugs the duvet closer to him, wanting to envelope himself in the comfortable warmth and drift into a peaceful sleep.

            “Y’know, I think that’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me so far,” Richie muses. There’s more shuffling from where he’s laying, and Eddie is hit with a mental image of him curling into himself, knees drawn up to his chest in a childlike ball. He wonders, if he were to open his eyes again and look, if that would be what he sees. He doesn’t open his eyes to check. “Maybe I should sleep here more often,” Richie goes on, in a voice that sounds like he’s talking mostly to himself, like he thinks Eddie is already asleep and doesn’t want to wake him up but also doesn’t want the room to lapse into silence. “If it’ll make you all nice and shit, I think it’d be worth it.”

            With a sharp exhale that’s supposed to be a laugh, Eddie mumbles, “Don’t count on it, asshole.” It’s not a good response, but it makes Richie snort nonetheless before another silence settles over them. Eddie thinks Richie must already be out when he sleepily asks, “Why do you go back to Witcham every night?”

            To his surprise, he gets an answer, though it’s not until a few minutes later, when he’s so close to unconsciousness that he can barely register Richie’s tired sigh – tired as in sleepy, tired as in far more than just that – as he practically whispers, “I guess I’m just a family man, Eds.”

            “Not m’name,” Eddie breathes, the world fading entirely around him.

            Richie’s smile is audible in his voice when he says, “Goodnight, Eds.”

            The beginnings of his own goodnight dies on Eddie’s lips as he finally drifts to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter three will be up on august 24!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this is two days late, i just ended up hitting a bit of writer's block during a very inconvenient time where i wasn't able to dedicate a lot of my time to working on this due to being busy, but it's here!! and i'm very happy with how this chapter turned out!!
> 
> i wanna say a HUGE thank you to sara (richietoaster on tumblr and ao3) for not only just being such a nice person and wonderful friend but also for beta'ing for me!! she caught so many of my dumb typos in this chapter it's insane, and she's also been offering some incredible ideas for this fic that i wouldn't have considered without her, and i'm just very very grateful and excited because i think this fic is going to turn out amazing in the long run and it wouldn't be nearly as good without her. and yes i will be thanking her before every chapter because i love and appreciate my friends ok!!
> 
> but another thing - sara also made a playlist of songs that remind her of this fic (with some input from me) and it's a really good playlist that i'm pretty sure she's adding more songs to over time? i may be wrong but idk. either way, if you wanna check out the playlist [here's the link!](https://open.spotify.com/user/1242147397/playlist/1qtZlOCzMIJWej3OMXpZnP)
> 
> also this update is about 1.5k words shorter than i wanted it to be but i feel like it's a really good chapter and to try and add anything else could ruin that so i hope no one minds it being a little bit shorter than the rest!!

            “You cannot _force_ the lyrics,” Stan’s teacher had said, not in regard to their final, but rather for the smaller weekly assignments that she’s been giving out since the second week of school. “Trying to force them will only make it sound unnatural. To write a good song, you need to find your motivation and let the words come to you.” All of the other students in his class had been nodding along in agreement, as if they had just heard something life-changing and meaningful. Stan just sourly grimaced and tried to ignore the bitter taste in his mouth. This him, that sounded less like advice and more like some kind of hippie-esque rambling that did absolutely nothing to help him with the bullshit that is songwriting.

            Now, it’s not like he isn’t _trying_ , because he _is_. He’s put more effort into trying to write this stupid song than he has with anything else in the past year. For the past two and a half hours, he’s been sitting on his bed with his guitar in his lap and a notebook placed in front of him. There’s a pen clenched in his hand and yet he can’t seem to reel his mind in to come up with even the most basic of ideas. About two hours ago, he kicked Bill, Ben, and Richie out of his dorm in order to let him focus, but so far, it’s proven to be worthless. Ever since he got his syllabus last nearly two months ago, he’s been attempting to come up with something for what this song should be about, only to come up empty-handed after each and every attempt. There’s a pile of crumpled up paper balls building by the side of his bed – earlier, before being forced out of the dorm, Richie had sifted through the papers and ended up hunched over in laughter at the half-assed lines scribbled on the page. None of them are good, Stan knows, and he needs something way better than just good if he’s going to perform this song in front of the entire school.

            At this point, he’s getting a little desperate. He’s never written a song before and he has no fucking clue how to approach it. Sure, it’s only October (the last day of October, though) and he has until mid-December to have it done, but he’s overheard the other freshman in his class, and all of them are either close to done or already finished, whereas he still doesn’t even know what he wants to write the song about. Hell, he hasn’t even chosen what genre of song to write in the first place! Should it be something happy and upbeat? Pop? Indie? Slow and sad? Low and sensual? Gooey and romantic?

            Wait…

            Stan freezes, one hand on the neck of his guitar while the other tightens his hold on the pen he had just been spinning between his fingers absentmindedly. A love song doesn’t sound like the worst idea, especially in comparison to what he’s thought of so far. He’s never really considered himself much of a romantic, has only had a very small handful of real crushes throughout his life up until this point, but to be poetic and soft? He can do that. And even if he gets stuck, he can ask Ben for some assistance, seeing as Ben is easily one of the most talented poetic souls that Stan has ever met.

            Plus, Ben has become quite a constant in Stan’s life since meeting him during the first week of school. He’s soft-spoken and as kind as a person can come. And he’s Mike’s roommate, which doesn’t really define Ben at all, but any chance that Stan’s mind can wander to Mike…

            Along with becoming fast friends with Ben, Stan and Richie, who never thought they’d ever be as close to anyone else as they are with one another, have found themselves enveloped into this group of incredible people. Bill is relaxed and loving, even with the ghosts that live in his eyes, a past that Stan has yet to hear haunting those baby blues. Beverly is a lot like Richie in a lot of ways, the two of them loud and unashamed to be who they are, bonding over the simplest of things and often bringing each other to tears as they whisper to one another and giggle endlessly, refusing to explain what’s so funny whenever someone asks. Ben is all-around lovely and quiet, though he has steadily opened up more and more since he started accepting invitations to hand out with them, and his admiration for everyone has not gone unnoticed, as though he still feels inadequate to be in their presence, to be considered a friend – Stan can still vividly remember when Ben recited a poem he was working on for class to the rest of them and became flustered when they all insisted how amazing it was. When Bill muttered an incredibly warm and genuine compliment of the poems thoughtfulness and working, Stan thought Ben was going to spontaneously burst into flames due to how red his face became.

            And Mike…

            Mike is different. At least, he is to Stan.

            There’s something about Mike that is undeniably alluring, capturing Stan’s full attention whenever they’re in the same room, often making Stan’s heart thud nervously and happily in his chest, just by being near him. At first, it was only Richie that noticed his obvious crush, as Richie can read Stan like a book just as Stan knows Richie like the back of his hand, but it appears that the others have caught onto it by now as well, though they choose not to say anything, likely due to feeling as if they don’t have the right, or like it’d be rude to interfere in any way. On Richie’s part, he teases Stan endlessly whenever they’re alone, poking and prodding at Stan’s sides with a sing-song voice and eyes glimmering with amusement. He has pointed out on many occasions, however, that Mike seems to have a particular attachment to Stan, too, but Stan isn’t sure if it’s in the same way or not. Honestly, he’s afraid to find out. Besides, they’ve only known each other for a month and a half – if he were counting, which he absolutely is not, he could say that it’s been fourty-nine days since they met on September 12th, exactly seven weeks ago – and Stan personally feels as though that’s not long enough to pursue something deeper than friendship, even though he really, _really_ wants to.

            When he explains this to Richie, he just snorts and declares that Stan’s being a pussy.

            Stan can’t exactly disagree, but that doesn’t make hearing it enjoyable to any degree.

            Never before has Stan given thought to writing a love song for this project. He’s never even been a big fan of love songs in general, often saying that they’re meaningless and repetitive whenever they come on the radio, but now that he’s got the idea in his mind, he can’t seem to shake it.

            With an unsteady hand, he writes _Mike’s Song_ at the top of a new page, only to immediately scribble it out. He can’t make it so blatantly obvious who this is about, just in case someone comes across this that he doesn’t want to see it. If anyone, even Richie, were to find such an obvious title for a song, he’d be mortified. After a moment of consideration, he writes _Pretty Brown Eyed Boy_ instead, sinking his teeth into his lower lip thoughtfully. Then, with a quick nod to himself, he sets the pen down and places his fingers on the neck of the guitar to play the first chord that comes to mind, incoherent and unorganized words floating around in his head. When he tries to strum, though, something feels off – not the chord, but the instrument of choice. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, his gaze slides around the room and focuses on his ukulele that’s propped up in the corner.

            _Perfect._

            Deciding not to second guess himself right now, he places the guitar on it’s stand by his bed and gets to his feet to snatch the ukulele into his hands, quickly clambering back onto the mattress to sit, failing to bite back an excited grin. He fumbles to get comfortable and put his hands in position before letting the crisp sound of the _D_ chord echo through the silence of the room. The lyric ideas that run through his mind are a bit jumbled and definitely in need of some polishing, but… they aren’t _bad_ , which is more than he can say for the pile of rejected attempts on the floor. With some help from Ben and genuine feedback from Richie, Stan should be able to iron everything out and turn this into something amazing.

            Going from a _D_ to an _A_ , Stan begins to test out a few different strumming patterns before settling for his go-to – down, down, up, up, down, up – and switching to a _C_. He knows he’s fully capable of playing something complicated and intricate, but this song feels like it needs to be more simple with a basic strumming pattern and basic chords. A good vibe for a love song. Or, at least, he hopes so, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if this idea falls through.

            He goes from _C_ to _G_. Stan thinks it sounds nice. Relaxing, almost. A good chord to round it out. He goes back to _D_ and plays through the four chords again, this time humming lightly under his breath to get a feel for what the melody should sound like. It takes a moment, but he gets a good idea fairly quickly. _D_ to _A. A_ to _C. C_ to _G_.

            _“On the day that we met,”_ Stan sings quietly as he once again returns to _D_ , only to wince and freeze, shaking his head lightly to himself. Something about that wording just feels off, not working for what he has envisioned in his mind. After a long moment, he goes back to playing a _D_ and tries again, murmuring, _“When I met you that day.”_ _D_ to _A. “Had no clue what-_ no, that’s not right.” Pause, consider, try again. _“Didn’t know what to say.”_ _A_ to _C_. _“But I stammered my way through.”_ _C_ to _G_. _“I make a fool of myself.”_ Let the note ring out for a second. _“That hasn’t happened with nobody else.”_ And play _D_ again, coming full circle for the next verse.

            He realizes the last line has a double negative, but so long as no one looks too closely, it’s not a big deal. The message is still clear, and it sounds nice – a whole lot nicer than what he was trying to make before this. Sure, it needs some more work, and he needs to think of lyrics for the rest of the song, but it’s good.

            Stan grins, his heart fluttering happily in his chest, and quickly picks up his pen to scribble all of this down before he can forget.

 

 

 

 

            This whole art book thing, Eddie has decided, is complete and utter bullshit.

            Realistically, it shouldn’t even be that hard. He is an artist who’s always itching to sketch, paint, and create, after all, and having a fourty-paged book on hand should be a relief, but there’s so much pressure pushed on these fourty pages, a pressure that’s hard to explain. It’s like the fact that all four-hundred students, plus faculty, will be flipping through these pages to see what he made is suppressing his need to make anything at all. It’s so daunting, the mere idea of having that many judging eyes on his art, and no matter how hard he tries, no matter how many times he ends up with his hand poised above the paper with a pencil, pen, or paint brush at the ready, he can’t help but feel like whatever he tries to put there won’t be good enough. He knows he’s talented, but it’s still terrifying.

            God, he knew that coming here would be hard, but he didn’t think something this simple would end up being so difficult for him to do. The entire situation is so _infuriating_ – even today, after spending an entire hour sitting in a park nearby and trying to sketch some of the trees with the sunlight shining through, he had only managed to fill on page despite have a month and a half to get the other thirty-five done. Art is the thing that he’s always loved, that he’s always been good at, and now it’s leaving him angry and bitter, glaring at the floor as he makes his way back to his dorm, biting his tongue to keep himself from muttering curses under his breath. He’s upset, yes, but it’s Halloween and he doesn’t want anyone walking by wearing a costume to thing his anger is directed at them. That’s an upside, he supposes – due to a majority of the student body being dressed up in some way, shape, or form, he manages to take his mind off the art book for a moment when he tears his gaze off the floor in order to observe the people he wants by. Some are dressed up in hilarious outfits, while others look insanely gory and realistic. The perks of attending an art school. People know how to put their art to good use.

            When he finally does reach his dorm, he can hear faint music playing inside, which isn’t too unusual anymore. Every since the first night Richie stayed in their dorm, he’s been staying more often – not as often as a normal student should, but once or twice a week, and he usually hangs out either in their dorm or in one of his friend’s dorms for an hour or two after classes before leaving. Frankly, Eddie doesn’t care where Richie is, but Richie’s still determined to act like the two of them are friends and often fills him in on things he doesn’t give a shit about, like where he’s going and who he’s going with. As much as Eddie tries to block his voice out, it proves to be useless. He has to admit, Richie is persistent and stubborn to an annoying degree. Not that it really matters, of course. Eddie still wants nothing to do with him.

            It’s as he’s about to open the door that he realizes there’s something different than normal – the sound of unfamiliar laughter, coming from people he can’t identify. He guesses it’s some of Richie’s friends, but he’s still confused, seeing as no one but Stan has been to their dorm in terms of Richie’s friends before. Deciding not to question it, he shoulders the door open and—

            _Oh._

            The music, which Eddie can quickly identify as Cell Block Tango from Chicago now that the door isn’t muffling it, is apparently being played for a reason, as Eddie quickly learns. In the center of the room, clad in a ridiculous pair of fishnets, jean shorts, and a baggy sweatshirt that shouldn’t look good but, for some god damn reason, does, is Richie dancing with the beat of the song. Along with that, he apparently got his hands on some makeup as well, as his lips are a ruby red, cheeks rosy with a gentle blush, eyelashes longer than usual and brushing against the curve of his cheekbones as he flutters them dramatically. His audience, the source of the laughter, are two boys that are perched on Richie’s bed and recording the scene in front of them, faces red as they snicker uncontrollably.

            _So, that night when he came home from work,_ the song crows, Richie mouthing along with a look of innocence on his face. None of them have noticed Eddie’s presence in the doorway, clearly too caught up in this moment that he’s walked in on. Richie bends his knees like he’s doing a slut-drop in slow motion, lowering his body until his ass is only a few inches from the floor. _I fixed him his drink, as usual._ Richie cocks his head to the side, curls falling in his face and a finger slowly trailing down the side of his face. His lower lip is just barely jutted out to form the tiniest of pouts, and Eddie feels frozen, rooted to the spot with his eyes glued to the way his mouth silently forms the words. _You know, some guys just can’t hold their arsenic._

            As the chorus kicks back in, Richie drops himself lower and then uses the momentum to propel himself back to his feet in order to swing a leg out in front of him in an impossibly high kick that looks painful, but he’s just grinning wildly, like he’s having the time of his life dancing along to this song in front of two of his friends who are openly cackling at his dedication. Eddie feels a little dizzy. He isn’t sure why. Instead of addressing it, he just kicks the door behind him and lets it swing shut with an audible little slam, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

            Much to his dismay, this doesn’t bring a stop to the dancing as he hoped it could. Instead, Richie grins at him, red lipstick bright under the light of their dorm room, as if he’s greeting a good friend rather than someone who he knows doesn’t like him. Eddie grimaces, tossing his art book and his jacket onto his bed before crossing his arms over his chest with a little huff, nose crinkling as he scans over Richie’s outfit, trying to give the impression that he hadn’t been looking before. “What the hell are you wearing?”

            “My Halloween costume!” Richie responds giddily, looking down at himself with bright eyes and a quiet little giggle that should not sound as endearing as it is. He runs a hand over his fishnet-clad thigh and shrugs, meeting Eddie’s gaze again. The song is still playing, but it’s not too loud, so they can talk over it just fine. “Well, my temporary one. I don’t think my family would appreciate me showing up to our annual Halloween party wearing this, so I have a Koala onesie that I’m gonna change into before leaving, but until then, this is it!” He holds his arms out and spins around as if to showcase the whole thing. Eddie clenched his jaw and refuses to let his eyes wander, eyes narrowing down into a glare. Once he’s finished turning, Richie raises his brows and asks, “Well, what do you think? How does it look?”

            “Uncomfortable,” Eddie deadpans, shouldering past Richie in order to sit on the edge of his own bed. He doesn’t check over his shoulder to see the reaction he gets, but judging by the slight frowns on the strangers faces, it isn’t good. Pushing past that, he decides to change the subject, asking, “Who’re your friends?”

            Richie doesn’t answer for a moment, instead just shuffling back to his phone in order to turn the music off entirely. When he looks back up at Eddie, he looks just fine, smile spreading so wide that it almost looks painful as he giddily gestures to the boy sitting on the left, who has soft features and wide eyes as they glance between Richie and Eddie. “This is Ben,” Richie introduces, then moves his hand to the right to indicate the blue-eyed boy who looks equal parts amused and uninterested, “and this is Bill. Losers, this is my roommate, Eds.”

            With a little scoff-like exhale, Eddie shakes his head. “Not Eds. Eddie.”

            “Sure, Eds,” Richie grins, only for it to fall slightly when Eddie just rolls his eyes in annoyance and turns away, picking up his art book from his duvet in order to flip through it, scanning over the few pieces in there. On the first page, there’s a simple sketch of the window in his dorm from the day after his was given the assignment and had been bored. On the second page, a few doodles of the flowers that are in his mom’s garden back in Chicago – the only good thing about being her son, really, as he now has a love for gardening that was passed down from her. The third page, a detailed drawing of his father’s old lighter from when he was a teenage smoker, something he found in his father’s dresser shortly after his death and has kept with him ever since. The fourth page, an odd combination of colorful swirls and strange patterns. And the fifth page, the trees and the sunlight from the part earlier today.

            The rest of them, empty and bare.

            Sensing that Eddie isn’t going to respond, Richie turns his attention back to his friends and twirls his phone around in his hands absentmindedly. “So, it’s almost four right now, and Stan and I wanted to leave by four-thirty, which means we should probably head back in a few minutes, if that’s good with you two?”

            “That’s fine with me, man,” Bill shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie can see Bill scanning over him thoughtfully, as if sizing him up and trying to get a read on who he is, before turning away to look at Ben. “How about you? Any objections?”

            “None,” Ben answers, smiling down at his hands.

            “Alrighty, then, my dear boys,” Richie exclaims, tossing his phone next to Ben on his bed and spinning around quickly. “Give me a minute to change, and then we’ll be on our way.” Then, without another word, he grabs his Koala onesie from where it’s laying on the floor and disappears into the bathroom.

            For a long, slow moment, nobody speaks, and Eddie tries not to notice how oddly heavy it is in this room right now, because he doesn’t why it’s heavy in the first place. That is, until Bill bluntly asks, “So, what’s your problem with Richie?”

            Eddie blinks, mildly stunned as he glances away from the notebook in order to see that Bill is watching him closely, almost examining him. “What?”

            “Richie,” Bill repeats simply. “He always tells us how much you hate and he can’t figure out why. I mean, I’ve known him for less than two months, and if anyone’s the real Richie expert, it’s Stan, but it’s pretty obvious how much it bugs him not knowing what he did to piss you off. So, what is it?”

            “I…” Eddie trails off, brows drawn together and jaw clenching. He can’t tell if he should be upset or affronted. “No offense, but that’s not really your business. I have my reasons, leave it at that.”

            There’s a second where he thinks Bill is going to start a full-fledged argument over this, but then he just looks at Ben, who shrugs, and looks back at Eddie with a small smile. “Fair enough,” he says, not even a tint of anger behind his words. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and cocks his head to the side. “What are your plans for Halloween?”

            This is more shocking than the initial question, leaving Eddie confused and unsure of what’s going on. Slowly, he answers, “Nothing. Why?”

            “We’re having a scary movie marathon at my dorm, starting at six,” Bill says. “Richie and Stan won’t be there ‘cause they’re going back to Witcham to do whatever their yearly Halloween traditions are, but since you’re not a big Richie fan, I don’t think that really matters. You’re more than welcome to stop by if you want.”

            “Why?” Eddie asks before he can even stop to process the question. Bill hums, his eyebrows twitching up slightly in confusion, leading Eddie to elaborate, “I mean… if you’re friends with Richie, and you know I don’t like him, then why bother trying to hang out with me?”

            Bill blinks, and in a voice that makes it sounds like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world, he says, “You don’t have to be Richie’s friend to be my friend.”

            That makes Eddie pause, baffled.

            “Room 203,” Bill states, just as the bathroom door opens and Richie steps out, his previously revealing outfit replaced with the oversized onesie, though he still has the red lipstick, the blush, and the mascara on. “Six o’clock. Just think about it, okay?”

            “We’d all like it if you came,” Ben adds as him and Bill get to their feet. Before Eddie can even respond, the three of them are out the door and he’s left to ponder what he should do.

 

 

 

 

            “I thought I told you assholes to _leave—”_

            Mike blinks, his hand still raised in the air, fingers curled into the light fist he was using to knock on the door. In front of him, Stan freezes, his previous look of frustration melting into mortification as he stares at Mike, eyes wide and jaw dropped. Slowly lowering his hand, Mike shuffles his feet, clears his throat, and offers, “Uh- sorry?”

            “Oh, my god,” Stan breathes, scrubbing a palm over his features and looking like he’s contemplating bashing his head against the wall. “I’m so sorry, I just- I thought you were the others, I didn’t- Jesus Christ—”

            “It’s okay,” Mike interrupts, laughing lightly under his breath as he stuffs his hands in his front pockets and cocks his head to the side, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet in a way that makes him sway slightly where he stands. “Does that mean this isn’t a good time? I know we said six, but that’s just because Bev’s busy until then, so I thought being a couple hours early wouldn’t be a big deal. If it is, though, then I can totally go and just come back later.”

            Immediately, Stan shakes his head, stepping back and gesturing into his dorm quickly. “No, not at all! I guess I just didn’t realize what time it was, so I didn’t think anyone would get here anytime soon.” Mike accepts the gesture and makes his way inside, instantly heading over to the sofa to sit down and make himself at home, only mildly paying attention as Stan shuts the door and takes a timid step towards his room. “I, uh- I was working on the song I have to write, for the Final Show, you know?”

            Mike perks up in interest, smiling. “Really? You get any ideas for it yet?”

            “Nope,” Stan replies meekly, returning the smile with one of his own, only his is strained and forced. He raises a hand to gesture towards his ajar bedroom door and explains, “I’m just- I’m gonna clean up the papers and stuff real quick, if that’s cool? Once Richie and them get back, we’re gonna head out, so I have to pick it up before I run out of time.”

            “Go for it,” Mike nods, waving a hand out in a quick little shooing motion. “Clean up your stuff. I don’t mind, Stan.”

            Grinning a more genuine grin, Stan nods once and murmurs, “Okay,” before disappearing into his room, letting the door shut quietly behind him. For a moment, Mike smiles after him, staring at the spot he was just standing, before shaking himself out of it and pulling out his phone to pass the time until the others get here. He knows that he probably should have just waited another twenty minutes or so before coming over, but part of him had been hoping for exactly this to happen – the opportunity to be alone with Stan, if only for just a moment or two. He doesn’t really know why he’s so infatuated with him already, but he does know that they’ve barely been able to spend time together without anyone else there, and maybe he’s just selfish enough to want some alone time with his best-friend’s-roommate-sort-of-maybe-crush by showing up early. Sue him.

            Quickly, he shoots a text Bill’s way to let him know that he’s already here, only to get an quick response asking him why. Though he knows he’s alone, he still shifts bashfully in his seat and says that he got bored and decided to come over early. Bill sends back a winking face and says they’re only a couple minutes away from the dorm, so he doesn’t have to worry about making a fool out of himself in front of – Mike has to blink twice to make sure he isn’t reading this wrong – his _dream boy_.

            Sometimes, Mike thinks that Bill is too smart for his own good and needs to stop figuring things out on his own. This may or may not be one of those times.

            Thankfully, it really does only take a couple minutes before the door swing open and Bill makes his way inside, Ben and Richie trailing behind him. Ben immediately trots over to sit next to Mike, while Bill makes his way to the fridge to get a drink and Richie starts pounding obnoxiously on Stan’s door, yelling, “Hey! Hey, Uris! We gotta go! Stanley! Stan, hurry your ass up!”

            “Nice costume,” Mike quips loud enough to catch Richie’s attention, if only to stop him from shouting. Richie faces him with a grin, his lipstick only slightly smudged on the corner of his mouth and his features practically glowing as he pinches the soft material of his onesie. Snickering, Mike adds, “Kind of clashing, with the makeup and everything, but you make it work.”

            “Why, thank you, Mikey!” Richie coos, though he looks absolutely delighted by the compliment. Leaning against the wall besides Stan’s bedroom door, he says, “You know, you should have seen my Chicago outfit. Not to brag, but I look hot as fuck in fishnets.”

            “Oh, really?” Mike questions, still snickering.

            Completely serious, Bill makes his way to the sofa to sit on other side of Ben, a soda in one hand while the other fishes his phone out of his pocket as he says, “No, honestly, he looked great. We both got some videos. It’s kind of insane how well he pulled it off.”

            Ben nods in agreement, his eyes flickering back and forth between Bill and Mike with a little smile. “It’s the closest we’ve seen to him actually dancing, too, which was cool.”

            “I wanna see!” Mike makes childish grabby hands at Bill’s phone, eagerly accepting it when Bill finally pulls his photo album open and hands it over for Mike to watch the videos. Clicking on the first video, he presses play and gapes at the screen as he watches the little show Richie had put on. Impressed, he whistles lowly and exclaims, “Damn, Tozier, you really are a dancer!”

            “That kind of feels like an insult, but thank you,” Richie responds, grinning even wider now. He parts his lips, looking ready to say something else, only to be interrupted by Stan merging from his bedroom and immediately pulling Richie out of the dorm by his arm, shouting a quick goodbye over his shoulder before the door closes behind them.

            In the moment of silence of follows, Ben lets out a little snort, equal parts amused and shocked, before the three of them decide to shrug it off. Sure, they’ve become a fairly close friend group in the last month and a half, but they all know that Stan and Richie quite literally grew up together and will always have a bond that none of them will ever understand. Dropping the subject, Mike goes back to watching the videos and Bill turns on the TV. Now they just have to pass the time until Beverly can come over, and then the scary movie marathon shall begin.

 

 

 

 

            The lighting is soft, a gentle tone highlighting Audra’s features in a complimenting way. Her eyelashes leave a shadow across her cheekbones when she blinks, the white wall behind her the perfect background to a perfect shot, a few loose strands of red hair falling in her face in a beautiful, delicate sort of way. Beverly lets out a hum of approval as she makes a few minor adjustments to the camera’s setting, just to make the color tone a little bit more golden and warm, before starting the recording and murmuring, “Whenever you’re ready.”

            Audra takes a deep breath, thinks back to what they had just gone over merely ten minutes ago, and begins to recite the speech she had written last week. The words roll off of her tongue easily, each one memorized and picked out specifically for this. As Beverly watches, her eyes glued on the viewfinder to assure that the shot looks good the entire time, she can’t help but let out a long, slow breath in admiration. Being in the place she is and being willing to do what she’s doing is incredibly brave of Audra, and Beverly feels absolutely stunned to be lucky enough to be a part of it, even though the whole thing was her idea in the first place.

            After all, a documentary about Audra Phillips wouldn’t be possible without Audra Phillips herself.

            “I grew up in a very unsupportive home. My parents, they meant well, but they didn’t take anything I said seriously. So, when I told them that I wanted to be an actress, they scolded me. When I said my dream job was to be on Broadway, they laughed, like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard, but… I wasn’t joking. I was never joking.”

            Over the past seven weeks, Bev and Audra have been slowly and carefully working on this project together, ironing out all of the little details and perfecting their combined vision of what they want the final project to look like. They only started officially filming last week, having to find time between classes and other plans in order to get things done, but neither one of them are too worried. They have all the time they need to do this right, and they have enough confidence to carry them through.

            “It took a long time to convince them that attending Kenduskeag was the right choice for me. They never really believed it, always told me that art school is a waste and that I’d just be throwing all my potential away. Both of them wanted me to be lawyers, you know? Because that’s what people in my family are. My aunts, uncles, even my older brother… all of them are lawyers, and they wanted me to be the same, to follow in their footsteps. But I refused, because I don’t want that. I told them that I’d rather run away and find a way to make it as an actress on the streets than attend law school. I think the fact that I meant that is what got their attention, because they knew I would. They knew I would hop on a bus and never see them again if that’s what it took. And I think it’s because of this that they finally agreed on paying for my tuition to come here. They said that if I got accepted, they would support me through it. They trusted me to make the best decisions for myself. And for a while, they really stood by me on that choice until… until last year, when they heard about the rumors that were spread about me here. Ever since, they’ve been convinced that this place is bad for me, that I should just drop out, and… and I considered it, honestly. I thought about leaving. I thought about it more than once. Actually, I… I thought about it a lot. I still do.”

            But today is a little hard, because today has not been kind to Audra. The amount of snide comments made about how she should dress up for Halloween, put on a show, or even just go as herself because _whores don’t need costumes_ is absolutely ridiculous. Each of those comments weighs down on her now, and even when her voice starts to waver, Beverly’s eyes flickering from the viewfinder to look at her in concern, she keeps talking. She wants this part filmed in one take, unedited and raw, and if she cries then she cries and that’s just how it has to be.

            “I stayed, though, and I came back for my third year, and every single day is harder than the last. Almost everyone I talk to treats me like I’m some… some disgusting piece of shit, and it’s all because of something that isn’t even true. I… I have been so dedicated to this school ever since I got here, I’ve put so much hard work and focus into being the absolute best I can be, I work my ass off every day to try and make myself even better, and some of my teachers can’t even look me in the eye. It feels like… like this place that I’m so proud to be at is ashamed to have me here, and it… I…”

            A tear rolls down her cheek, and she can feel it drip from her chin and soak into the fabric of her jeans. Beverly swallows roughly, clearly conflicted on if she should intervene or not. Audra just keeps talking, her speech turning into a watery voiced rant, and eventually her words are just slurs of babbled nonsense and Beverly clambers out in front of the camera to pull her into a hug. “Shh,” she coos softly, rocking the two of them back and forth. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. It’s okay, Audra, shh…”

            Feeling a little helpless, Audra shakes her head and clutches onto the back of Beverly’s sweatshirt, burying his face into the crook of her neck. “I’m so tired of this,” she cries.

            “I know, honey, I know,” Beverly murmurs gently, one hand running through Audra’s hair and the other rubbing soothing circles against her back. Hearing Audra’s sobbing makes her feel a little choked up herself, but she just pushes it away and swallows the lump in her throat. “It was a shitty day, okay? You’ll be fine, I promise. It’s gonna get better.” Pulling back slightly, she uses the pads of her thumbs to wipe away Audra’s tears and says, “Talk to me. How can I help? Do you want me to go get some ice cream or something? ‘Cause I will, I have no problem with that.”

            “That’s really cliché,” Audra murmurs, unable to hold back the little laugh that bubbles through her tears. She lets her cheek rest against Beverly’s shoulder, seeking comfort in the touch, and can’t help but wonder when the last time someone hugged her was. Is it bad that she can’t remember?

            Beverly chuckles, though it’s short and half-hearted due to the worry still growing hot and angry in her chest. “It is cliché,” she agrees, now twirling strands of Audra’s hair between her fingers gently, only slightly in awe at how soft it is. “But it really does help. Ice cream always helps. Unless you’re lactose intolerant, but I’m pretty sure you’re not, so…”

            Again, Audra laughs, this time less watery and more genuine. She sniffles lightly, withdrawing one of her hands from Beverly’s sweatshirt in order to wipe some of the wetness from her face. She doesn’t pull back, though, not yet, instead just giving herself some time to enjoy this closeness. Eventually, she shakes her head and sighs, saying, “No ice cream.”

            “Not even a little bit?” Beverly asks, trying to make Audra laugh again. Thankfully, she succeeds.

            “Not right now,” Audra decides, pulling back from Beverly's tough entirely and trying not to think about the fact that Beverly looks reluctant to let her go. “You have plans with your friends, remember? Six o’clock. It’s almost five-fifty. You should go.”

            “You should come with me,” Beverly counters instantly.

            Audra falters, frowning as she looks away. Ever since the very first day that they met, Beverly has been insistent on trying to introduce her to her friends, and the gesture is kind, but Audra can’t help but feel like it’s a bad idea. Most people don’t exactly like being around her, let alone being friends with her, and to accept these invitations feels like she’d just be a burden.

            Maybe one day she’ll agree, but right now…

            “I want to call my mom and catch up with her,” she lies easily, looking back to Beverly with a small smile. “I’m used to seeing her on Halloween, so the past three years we’ve made sure to talk, so… I would, but I don’t want to cancel on her, you know?”

            For a moment, Beverly doesn’t look convinced, but she quickly drops it and nods, saying, “Fine, but you have to come with me sometime soon, okay? My friends really want to meet you. I told you from the very beginning that you’d probably end up being one of the Losers of Kenduskeag and I intend to keep that promise. Plus, they’re nice, and I think you’d really like them.”

            “I will,” Audra states firmly. “I will meet them. Just not tonight.”

            “Promise?”

            Audra falters only for a moment before nodding. “Promise.”

 

 

 

 

            When Richie finishes reading over the lyrics scrawled on the page, he takes a moment to ponder how to word his response, glancing between the cars driving past them and Stan, who’s sitting behind the wheel and gnawing on his lower lip nervously. He made it clear when they got in the car that he wanted Richie to be completely serious and give one hundred percent genuine feedback before handing the first draft of the song over, and now, ten minutes into their drive back to Witcham, he’s visibly anxious to hear what Richie has to say.

            “I think it’s good,” Richie eventually decides on, scanning over the words again before nodding to himself. “I mean, I’m not songwriting expert, and I definitely have to hear you play it to get a good feel on how it sounds together, but just looking at the lyrics, it looks like a great song.”

            Stan lets out a long exhale of relief, only sparing Richie a quick glance before focusing on the road in front of them, pulling onto the freeway that’ll take them back to Witcham. “You mean it?”

            Again, Richie nods, now setting the page down in his lap and turning to face Stan with a grin. “Yeah, I mean it, but I have to ask. This is about Mike, right?”

            “Maybe,” Stan murmurs, but he knows that it’s impossible to hide anything from Richie, his face immediately heating up with a deep blush that he knows is very much visible in contrast to his pale skin. Besides him, Richie lets out a little huff of laughter, grin growing larger before turning into something more soft and fond, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

            “Wow,” he muses. “You really like him, then. I thought it was just a whole, _oh shit he’s hot_ kind of thing, you know? But this song tells a different story. You’re crushing hard, Uris.”

            Blush growing deeper, Stan takes one hand off the steering wheel and reaches over to shove Richie’s shoulder. He considers smacking him over the head, but he knows that Richie will smack him back and he can’t start a toddler-style fist fight while he’s driving, especially if he wants to make it to Witcham alive. “Fuck off, Tozier.”

            Laughing louder, Richie lazily swats Stan’s hand away and defensively says, “Hey, that’s not a bad thing! It’s actually really cool. You never let yourself like people like that. It’s refreshing to be reminded that you have human emotions, and aren’t some mindless robot that’ll probably kill me in my sleep when technology takes over, you know? It’s like a weight off my chest.”

            “I don’t need to be a robot to kill you in your sleep,” Stan retorts, but he can’t hold back the cheesy grin that grows on his face as he realizes that Richie’s right. Sure, he’s never intentionally held himself back from crushing on people, but he often talks himself out of them, like having feelings for other people is dangerous or something. He supposes that’s what he should expect after all of the things he witnessed growing up, both in his own home and in Richie’s.

            “You’ve got a point there,” Richie snickers, taking a moment to gaze out the window and watch the trees go by before facing Stan again. Stan expects him to keep up the teasing, but instead Richie just cocks his head to the side and states, “So, something cool happened today.”

            Confused, Stan looks at Richie briefly, brows pinching together. He doesn’t look for long, too much of a cautious driver to risk it, but he does quickly ask, “What happened?”

            Out of his peripheral vision, he can see Richie sink his teeth into his lower lip to try and contain an excited grin as he explains, “Well, we all have to do something for the Final Show, right? And you’ve been asking me about what I’m gonna do and I haven’t been able to give you an answer because I didn’t know, but now I do.”

            Immediately, Stan perks up, intrigued. “What are you gonna do?”

            “There’s this senior dance major, Adrian, and I guess the senior dancer’s are supposed to choreograph something with a group of underclassmen to perform. Apparently they usually get juniors and maybe a few sophomores, because he was, like, seriously shocked to find out I was a freshman, but he stopped me after class and he asked me to be a part of his group. We’re gonna be starting rehearsals after Thanksgiving, and he said that we’re gonna be doing King of New York from Newsies.”

            “Dude, that’s awesome!” Stan grins, and he momentarily considers pulling off to the side of the road just to give him a celebratory hug, but he knows he shouldn’t and instead flashes him a look that he hopes conveys how proud of him he is. “See? I told you this school was a good idea.”

            Richie shrugs, but he’s still smiling, wide and giddy with excitement. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re always right, that’s nothing new.”

            “You bet your ass I’m always right,” Stan nods, though he can’t help but laugh through his words, and suddenly they’re both giggling uncontrollably, feeling intoxicated for no reason other than the fact that they’re attending a great school, have made great friends, and are genuinely the happiest that they have ever been.

            And Stan can only hope that it’ll stay this way, at least for a little bit longer.

 

 

 

 

            It’s tempting.

            Like, really tempting. Really, _really_ tempting. So tempting, in fact, that Eddie is having an incredibly difficult time trying to talk himself out of it.

            See, here’s the problem: Eddie has never been good at making friends. Partly because he wasn’t allowed to have friends back in Chicago, but also because he just doesn’t know how to act or what to do. It’s not like he was socialized much as a teenager. After the death of his father, his mother kept him so sheltered that he may as well have just been kept in a bubble with how imprisoned he was in his own home. Going to school was a difficult task all on it’s own, seeing as she would find any excuse to keep him locked in his room. How he managed to graduate and apply at Kenduskeag in secret, he has no idea.

            But that’s not the point. The point is, Eddie doesn’t know how to do friends. And sure, Richie’s friends have seemed nice in the brief run-ins that he’d had with them, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Besides, they seem nice, but they’re friends with Richie, which Eddie finds concerning all on its own, because Richie is not someone Eddie wants to be friends with.

            However, despite all of that, Eddie finds himself trailing down the hallway at a quarter to six, his teeth sinking nervously into his lower lip as he tries to make himself back out of this. It’s a bad idea, he knows, but Eddie has spent every single night at Kenduskeag holed up in his dorm, and he’s craving something different. Something fun, though sometimes he thinks he wouldn’t know fun if it hit him right in the face. Part of him feels guilty, knowing that his mother would never approve of this – has never and will never approve of _any_ of this – but that guilt quickly turns into motivation, because _fuck_ what his mother does and doesn’t want. Satan Sonia wanted Eddie to go to a community college in Chicago and live at home for the rest of his life. Satan Sonia threw an entire bitch fit when he told her that he was going to Oregon to attend an art school Satan Sonia is not and never will be someone he aspires to please.

            His father, though… his father would have wanted him to try and make some friends.

            It’s this last thought that really makes him go through with it, coming to a stop outside of dorm room 203 and raising a shaking hand in order to knock on the door. From inside the room, he can already hear the laughter of a group of people he doesn’t know, and just as he’s considering turning around and leaving, the door swings open, revealing a pleasant looking redheaded girl on the other side. Confused, she cocks her head to the side and asks, “May I help you?”

            “Hi,” he breathes, not knowing what else to do. He can feel his face heating up as her brows furrow together. Stammering, he adds, “I’m, uh- I’m Richie’s roommate? Bill said I could- I could stop by and join you guys, if—”

            “Oh, shit!” Redhead interrupts, grinning. “You’re Eddie?”

            Faltering slightly, Eddie nods. “Um, yeah. Yes, I am.”

            “Beverly,” she introduces, sticking her hand out in front of her expectantly. After only a second of hesitation, he accepts the offer and shakes her hand. “Richie’s mentioned you a shit ton. He says you hate him. Is that true?”

            Eddie licks his lower lip nervously, pulling his hand back. He thinks about what Bill said earlier, about how him not being friends with Richie won’t necessarily prevent him from being friends with anyone else, and honestly answers, “Kind of? I mean, I don’t _hate_ him, but I definitely don’t _like_ him. He’s a pain in the ass and he pisses me off.”

            Thankfully, this just makes Beverly laugh. “That sounds about right,” she muses lightly, eyes shining as she steps back and holds open the door. “Come on in, Eddie. You’re just in time, we were about to start the first movie.”

            Gingerly, Eddie nods, unsure of how to feel about this – if Richie’s friends are aware of the fact that he doesn’t like Richie, why are they cool with meeting him? Why are they bothering to be nice to him? – and makes his way inside. He supposes, worst comes to worst, he can just leave at any time and go back to his dorm. After all, he’s fairly certain he won’t really get along with any of them anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter _should _be up on friday, but again i am busy and if my writers block acts up again it could be a day or two late. i promise to try my best to be on time though!!__


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is only 6.3k words, which is _much _shorter than the rest, but there is a reason!! the next two chapters will be what i am kindly referring to as monster chapters. they will be well over 10k words, which will make up for this chapter being so short. (well, not short, but shorter in terms of the average for this fic).__
> 
>  
> 
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> _that being said, i'm still shooting for updates being on fridays, but the last two have both been sunday, which is unfortunate but not something i will apologize for. life is hectic and the fact that i managed to finish this chapter in the midst of my insanely busy weekend is a miracle. however, i will work harder to get future chapters out on time. as always, no promises._  
> 

            It’s an odd feeling, being roommates with someone who not only dislikes you, but is also friends with your friends. Originally, when Richie invited Eddie to hang out with them back in September, it had been in the hopes of getting on his good side. Hearing that Eddie had accepted Bill’s invitation on Halloween had made Richie ecstatic, thinking that it might finally put an end to the whole hating him thing, but to no avail. Now Eddie hates him and loves his friends and none of it makes much sense. Not to mention that Richie’s now extra cautious about pissing Eddie off, afraid that making Eddie mad at him could potentially cause everyone else to be mad at him as well. Which doesn’t make much sense, seeing as Eddie always seems to be mad at him.

            Any attempt to befriend Eddie has been very quickly shot down without even a millisecond of consideration or hesitation – which says something, because there’s been quite a few handfuls of attempts by now. It’s as if Eddie is one hundred percent against the mere idea of treating Richie with basic human decency. How do you please someone who thinks everything you do is nothing but annoying? Even right now, with Richie just laying on his bed and texting his dad about which bus he should catch to make it back to Witcham in time for dinner, Eddie is upset with him. It only takes a couple minutes of literally nothing happening before he’s letting out an aggravated sigh, hunched over the little book he’s drawing in, posture almost protective, and snaps, “Didn’t you say you were leaving tonight?”

            “I am,” Richie murmurs, not bothering to feign any energy or interest when he knows that it won’t do him any good. “Just not yet. In an hour, probably.”

            “Well, you should go bug Stan for the next hour, then,” Eddie grumbles, voice bitter and laced with an odd, lazy kind of venom, like he wants to be pissed but is too tired to follow through with it.

            That’s another thing, though. Ever since befriending the losers back in Halloween, Stan’s been wary of Eddie’s presence, and for good reason. Stan can read Richie like an open book and can tell that this mindless anger always manages to drain him, and he’s not particularly open to becoming friends with someone who only ever treats his best friend like shit. It makes sense, and no one has tried forcing a friendship onto them, only asking for them to remain civil with one another, but it seems as if Eddie has taken a personal offense to Stan not wanting to befriend him. For the past three weeks, Eddie has been treating Stan with the same coldness that’s been directed towards Richie since day one, and while their friend group isn’t exactly happy with it, no one has tried to intervene yet.

            What doesn’t add up to Richie is the fact that he knows Eddie isn’t a bad person. Sure, he has every right to believe that Eddie is an asshole, since he treats Richie like dirt and refuses to even explain why, but there are moments where things are different. It usually happens on the nights that Richie stays in their dorm instead of going home, when Eddie is so tired and groggy that his Chicago accent becomes thicker than ever and he can barely keep his eyes open. On these nights, Eddie treats Richie much kinder, sometimes even acting as though they’re friends, only to pretend it never happened the following morning. This proves that Eddie is capable of being nice to Richie, so why does Eddie keep choosing to be hostile and cruel instead?

            “You’re going to Losers-giving, right?” Richie asks, mostly just to fill the silence as he kicks his legs back and forth over the edge of his bed, letting his phone drop carelessly onto his stomach and releasing a slow breath that’s almost too tired to be a sigh. He already knows that Eddie has no patience with him today, but he can’t help it – he hates the quiet, almost as much as he hates yelling, and even if Eddie barks out a snide response, that’ll be better than nothing.

            “Unless you decide to go,” Eddie deadpans, not even looking away from the page he’s so focused on, though he does pause his drawing, grip visibly tightening on the pencil he has in his hand, now poised in the air and waiting to be used.

            Richie snorts at that, because that sounds like something his friends would say. The difference is that Eddie means it and his friends wouldn’t, but he chooses to ignore that and instead assures, “No worries there.” His head lulls to the side to watch as Eddie clenches his jaw an frustration and tries not to feel guilty, knowing that he’s done nothing to feel guilty about. “I’ve got family expecting me at home today, so I’ll be out of your hair. Can’t say the same about Stan, though, ‘cause I refused to let him come with me, but he’ll play nice if you will.”

            Monotone and dry, Eddie states, “Don’t care.”

            “I know you don’t,” Richie sighs, and he almost sounds sad, but he opts to keep going before that pathetic little lilt in his voice can be addressed. “I gotta ask you something, though. Can I?” Wordlessly, Eddie finally looks at him, curious and wary as he cocks an eyebrow. Richie knows this probably isn’t a good idea, but it’s the first thing that pops to his mind, so he does it anyway. “Why are you staying for Thanksgiving? Is it just, like, too expensive to fly home and back, or is there some family debacle going on back home?”

            “Chicago isn’t my home,” Eddie tells him instantly, which is not at all what Richie thought he’d be upset about. There’s no flare in anger, though, which is definitely better than Richie expected. If he closes his eyes and focuses real hard, this could almost count as a friendly interaction.

            Almost.

            “That’s none of your business, by the way,” Eddie adds, that familiar bite in his tone once again.

            Richie shrugs and gestures vaguely in front of him as he points out, “Yeah, but neither is any of the shit you always ask me, so I figured it’s only fair.”

            Huffing out an incredulous laugh, Eddie drops his pen onto his open book and looks at Richie as though he’s insane, nose crinkled slightly in visible irritation. “Please, do enlighten me on what questions I’ve asked you that weren’t any of my business. I bet you can’t even name one.”

            “Oh, gosh, you got me there,” Richie drawls sarcastically, pushing himself into a sitting position and rolling his eyes. “Maybe the dozens of times you’ve asked me about Witcham? Or why I go home so much? Or literally any question you have ever asked me, despite the fact that you always say you don’t want to have anything to do with me?” Cocking his head to the side, he feigns an innocent expression of confusion, which is only about fifty percent fake, and says, “You know, I really don’t get you, Eds. I mean, if you hate me, why do you want to know so much about me? Wouldn’t it be easier to just act like I don’t exist?”

            “I can’t act like you don’t exist,” Eddie hisses, though his cheeks redden slightly when he realizes he can’t argue Richie’s point about the invasive questions. “Incase you forgot, I was the poor asshole who got stuck rooming with you, so ignoring you isn’t really an option. _Especially_ since you never shut up.”

            With a scoff, Richie exclaims, “You initiate shit even when I do shut up! Literally, _you’re_ the one that started this. I wasn’t doing _anything_ when you asked me if I was leaving and told me to go bother Stan.”

            Eddie grimaces. “You’re a dick, Richie Tozier,” he says simply, voice lilted with barely-contained anger and a bitterness so heavy and laced with venom that Richie can practically taste it in the air, weighing down his lungs uncomfortably when he breathes it.

            “And you’re the most stubborn person I have ever met, Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie replies evenly, his shoulder raising in a half-hearted shrug as he gets to his feet, shoving his phone in his back pocket and doing a quick sweep of the room to make sure he doesn’t need to grab anything else. Once he’s satisfied, he adds, “Just so you know, I’d love to be friends, if you ever decide to stop acting like I’m the fucking devil. It doesn’t look like that’s gong happen anytime soon, though, so I’m just gonna go bother Stan, like you wanted. Happy Thanksgiving, I guess.”

            Before Eddie can respond – though he isn’t sure how to – Richie is out the door and the room is left in an uncomfortable silence. Releasing a slow, tense sigh, Eddie slumps his shoulders and leans back against the wall, his features scrunched up as he reluctantly takes his pen into hand and turns back to the nearly complete drawing in his art book. On the page, a portrait of Richie stares back up at him, in need of some shading and touch ups, and Eddie has to swallow the lump in the throat before he gets to work on finishing it. In the back of his mind, he refuses to acknowledge any curiosity to why he chose to draw Richie in the first place, repeatedly assuring himself that it’s because he has less than a month to fill the rest of his art book, and Richie happened to be sitting there when he was trying to find ideas for what else he could add. That’s it.

            Nothing more, nothing less.

 

 

 

 

            Bill’s dorm has never smelled this pleasant before.

            When he says as such, his friends laugh at him. Very, very hard.

            At first, he’s affronted, not able to pinpoint what it is causing this reaction. “It’s not like I’m saying it usually smells _bad,”_ he defends, even more confused when they go from regular laughing to cackling mercilessly. He turns to Stan, his lower lip jutted out slightly in an involuntary pout, and says, “You live here, too! Tell them!”

            “No, no, you’re right,” Stan agrees, having to lean against Richie slightly to keep himself steady as he continues to giggle. He takes a moment to gather himself and catch his breath before approaching Bill, clapping a hand on his shoulder in what could be a comforting manner, but could also be condescending, and explaining, “That’s not what’s funny, though. You just basically said that you’ve never cooked anything here. Like, ever. Which is true, actually, because I’ve been living with you for three months and I haven’t seen you eat anything other than take-out and popcorn. Not gonna lie, it’s pretty concerning, actually.”

            “That’s all he ate last year, too,” Mike tuts, his eyes shimmering with fondness and amusement. His gaze tries to stay on Bill, but it slides over to Stan without his consent, taking in his reddened cheeks from laughing, the sparkle in his eyes and the way his hair is tucked carelessly into a dark red beanie for the sake of keeping warm in the late-November weather. Letting his gaze stay on Stan for a moment too long, Mike raises a single shoulder in a half-hearted shrug and says, “I’m not sure how he’s survives, to be completely honest.”

            “Spite,” Ben speaks up, sitting on the sofa with his lugs curled comfortably underneath him and a fresh much of apple cider warming the palms of his hands. He looks up at them, being the only one who isn’t standing, and grins a wide, boyish grin. “He survives out of spite,” Ben elaborates. “Just to confuse everyone else and make us wonder how it’s possible, because it shouldn’t be.”

            Richie absolutely _howls_ with laughter at that, acting as though he just heard the funniest joke in the world, whereas Bill just huffs out a breath with a barely suppressed smile, collapsing into the empty seat next to Ben. Pouting dramatically, he says. “If you’re gonna make fun of me, you should at least let me have a sip.” Then, with a cocked eyebrow, he pointedly looks down at Ben’s drink and holds out an expectant hand, deepening his pout even further, just because he can.

            For a moment, Ben does nothing, scanning over Bill’s features slowly and carefully, but even now, after being friends for months, he can’t find it in him to even pretend to say no. So, with a resigned little sigh, he hands the mug over and murmurs, “Please don’t drink all of it.”

            “Yeah, of course not. I wouldn’t do that,” Bill assures, looking delighted to have been allowed a drink at all. He eyes the drink giddily before taking what appears to be the tiniest sip humanly possible, one so small that Ben almost tells him that he can have more, but Bill looks satisfied when he hands the drink back, smacking his lips together with a pleased little hum. “That’s really good,” he says, already wanting more but not wanting to keep drinking something that isn’t his. “Did you bring any more of it with you? ‘Cause if you didn’t, I’ll go out and buy some.”

            “No, I brought more,” Ben says, already getting to his feet with a wide smile. “C’mon, I’ll make you some. You can even know the secret my mom taught me to make it taste better, if you want.”

            It’s as Ben is leading Bill into the kitchen that the door swings open and Beverly comes in, and anxious looking Audra trailing behind her, gnawing on her lower lip nervously as she steps inside. She freezes just inside the doorway, stock still as a sudden silence enveloped the room and everyone’s wide-eyes gaze settles on her. For a moment, she looks as though she just might flee, until:

            “Oh, thank _god._ I was starting to think Bev was hiding you because she was embarrassed of us.”

            The tension shatters just like that, Richie’s genuine relief causing everyone to snicker under their breath as Beverly pulls Audra further into the room, closing the door behind them. “I _am_ embarrassed of you,” she jokes, grinning, “but I think she’ll be able to handle you losers, so it’s fine.” Mike barks out a laugh at that, clearly amused, before Beverly gestures around the room to indicate each person as she tells Audra, “That’s Richie, Mike, Stan, Ben, and Bill. I guess Eddie isn’t here yet—”

            “Not until I leave,” Richie interrupts. He says it like it’s a joke, lips turned up and one eyes fluttering shut in a lazy wink, but his voice is a little sour. “Once I head out, just give it ten minutes and he’ll probably waltz right on in. Don’t worry, he loves anyone who isn’t me, so you’ll get along just fine.”

            Stan huffs out a laugh, though his eyes harden slightly in frustration. Audra parts her lips, confused, with the intention of asking a question about the meaning behind Richie’s words, but instead opts against it. At least, for now. She doesn’t want to cross any lines by prying into business that isn’t her own. Besides, Beverly sighs before she can even come up with a question, repeating, “I guess Eddie isn’t here yet, but he’ll be here later. As for all of you,” she points a menacing finger and sweeps it around the room to indicate her friends, brows raised threateningly, “I expect you to be on your best behavior, got it? No fucking around and getting weird. I told Audra you were losers, so she has some ideas of what to expect from you fuckers, but I’ll start a riot if you guys scare her off.”

            “We have a best behavior?” Ben asks, looking genuinely confused. “I kind of though we were just in a constant state of chaos.”

            Beverly falters, tilting her head side-to-side as she ponders this. “You’re not wrong,” she relents, frowning slightly. Pointing to Stan, she says, “At the very least, you have to promise to be nice to Eddie, okay? I’ll pull him aside when he gets here and make sure he’s nice to you, too.”

            “As long as he doesn’t start talking shit about Richie in front of me, I promise that I’ll be a fucking saint,” Stan easily replies, offering a warm smile that doesn’t quite match up with his words.

            “You really _do_ love me,” Richie coos, wiping away a nonexistent tear and throwing an arm over Stan’s shoulders. He looks to Mike and crows, “Can you believe it, Mikey? Stan loves me!”

            Features remaining just as upbeat and kind, Stan shoves Richie off of him, sending him toppling to the floor with a surprised yelp, and says, “I changed my mind. Eddie’s my new best friend. For Christmas, we’re going to meet up and murder Richie in his sleep.”

            “You don’t even celebrate Christmas,” Richie pouts, letting Mike pull him to his feet. Everyone around them is chuckling quietly at the scene. Audra looks equal parts amused and thoroughly confused.

            “No murdering on Thanksgiving,” Beverly states, scowling at Stan in an attempt to hide her own amusement glistening in her eyes.

            Bill snorts, looking up from the mug he’s currently mixing apple cider in. “Unless it’s the turkey, apparently. Murder them all you want.”

            This just makes Ben frown, slowly lowering the spoon in his hand, a certain kind of sadness twisting up his features as he murmurs, “I don’t like the idea of murdering a turkey.”

            It goes quiet for a moment, all of them feeling a little heavy because of the genuine distress in Ben’s gaze. Gazing down at Ben with a strained kind of fondness in his eyes, Bill states, “You know, I kind of want to go vegetarian for Thanksgiving this year. Anyone else on board?”

 

 

 

 

            Thanksgiving in the Denbrough-Uris dorm room looks like this:

            There’s not enough space for them to sit, and instead of trying to decide who gets places on the sofa and who doesn’t, they all choose to take a seat on the floor. At first, they’re in a circle, an assortment of cheap, knock-off versions of Thanksgiving food positioned in the center – Walmart brand stuffing, turkey sandwiches instead of actual turkey, simple stuff like that. After fifteen minutes, however, they become a little less organized, a little more sprawled out in order to see the TV and maintain pleasant conversation as they lazily poke at their dinners.

            Audra fits in easily, though it takes over an hour for her to really warm up to them. Bill and Ben both listen intently to her explanation of how she got into acting in the first place, which ends up in a passionate rant about how important drama programs in high schools are. Stan ends up having a long conversation with her about music and how vital it is to the arts in various aspects, while Mike and her discuss photography and how each photo can convey so much meaning. Eddie, who had predictably shown up about ten minutes after Richie’s departure, chats with her mindlessly with no specific topic, just finding her presence pleasant and warm. Beverly simply looks happy to have Audra there in the first place, finally meeting her friends after months of trying to arrange something like this

            “What’re your guys’ plans for the Final Show?” Audra asks, looking around at everyone curiously. She’s heard all of their majors by this point, but she wants to get to know them more – wants to really give them a chance at being friends, instead of letting her fear of the rumors ruining everything getting in the way. “I know Bev’s, since the documentary is both of ours, but what are yours?”

            The first person to answer is Bill, who merely shrugs, takes a moment to swallow a bite of his sandwich, and answers, “I wrote a short story to put on display. It’s only, like, twenty-thousand words, I think. Not too long. I got an A on it, though.”

            “What kind of short story?” Audra questions, intrigued.

            “Horror,” Bill answers simply.

            After that is Mike, who tells her, “I haven’t picked them out yet, but I’m going to choose my top three favorite pictures from this quarter and have them put up for people to look at.”

            “I wrote a song,” Stan answers.

            This catches everyone’s attention, even Eddie, who can’t help but to ask, “Can we hear it?”

            Stan barely suppresses the urge to glare at Eddie, instead settling a steeled over gaze on him and stating, “Not until the show. The only people who’ve heard it are Richie and Ben.”

            “Why Ben?” Beverly asks, tilting her head to the side in slight confusion.

            Shrugging, Stan looks away from Eddie, who shifts uncomfortably from being under his gaze in the first place, and tells her, “He’s an insanely good poet, so I asked him for help with the lyrics.”

            “He asked for my _opinion_ ,” Ben corrects, looking bashful from the compliment. “I gave him some ideas and stuff, but it was all him. And to make it fair, I had him help me with the poem that’s gonna be on display at the show.”

            “Help?” Stan snickers, grinning at Ben. “I just read it and told you it’s the best poem I’ve ever read. I didn’t help at all.”

            Cheeks burning a bright red, Ben meekly murmurs, “You gave me feedback. That’s helpful.”

            Turning to Eddie, Audra asks, “What about you? What’s your contribution?”

            “An art book,” Eddie tells her simply, shrugging. “It’s just a bunch of sketches and stuff. Nothing big or cool, really. It’s actually kind of dumb, I think. Not like all of you guys, y’know?”

            “That doesn’t sound dumb,” Audra frowns, though she doesn’t do much else in terms of comfort. She doesn’t want to overstep, even in a moment like this. Shifting her gaze to Stan, who she is now well aware is the closest to the missing member of the group, she questions, “What about Richie?”

            Laughing under his breath, Eddie leans back and murmurs, “I doubt he’s participating. He doesn’t care enough to do anything.” He lets out a low hiss when Beverly slaps him in the shoulder, giving him a pointed look that makes him sigh and offer a half-hearted apologetic smile.

            Gritting his teeth, Stan answers, “Actually, he’s part of Adrian Mellon’s dance group.”

            “Adrian Mellon?” Audra gapes, her eyes going wide. Eddie looks around in mild surprise, confused about this reaction, only to find all of them grinning proudly. “But Adrian’s a senior. He asked Richie to be in his group? Are you serious? Senior’s only ever pick juniors!”

            “He didn’t realize Richie was a freshman until after going up to talk to him,” Stan explains, looking like a parent bragging about their child. His smile is wide, eyes sparkling. “I guess Adrian was hanging around the studio to look for dancers and thought that Richie was a transfer or something. When he found out that Richie’s still a first year, he said that he had to have him in his group, ‘cause he could immediately tell that Richie’s easily one of the best dancer’s here.”

            _Huh,_ Eddie thinks, blinking slowly. He doesn’t want to admit it, but that sounds like an insanely cool opportunity. If he were Richie’s friend, he’d be proud as hell, too.

            “Plus,” Mike adds, “Adrian’s boyfriend, Don, is one of the best filmmakers in the school. I guess Don’s contribution to the show is gonna be a behind the scenes short film of them rehearsing, but they don’t start rehearsals until next week. It’s gonna be insanely cool, though. I’m really excited to see it.”

            The conversation tapers off from there, everyone splitting into duos or trios to discuss whatever it is they want to discuss. For a moment, Eddie doesn’t engage in anything, caught up in his thoughts, until his curiosity gets the best of him, causing him to move closer to Stan and clear his throat, almost experimentally. Stan pauses in his talk with Ben to look at him, seemingly unimpressed, but Ben moves away to give them space before he can try to dismiss Eddie’s presence. With a heavy sigh, Stan faces Eddie fully, his actions reluctant as he states, “If Beverly didn’t tell me to be nice to you, I’d tell you to fuck off, so consider yourself lucky. What do you want?”

            Unable to help it, Eddie snorts lightly. This only causes Stan’s eyes to narrow down into a glare. Shifting slightly, Eddie decides not to risk his luck and instead gets straight to business by saying, “Being in Adrian’s dance group sounds like a really big deal.”

            “It is,” Stan tells him coldly.

            Eddie nods, each moment going by making him feel more and more uneasy, but he powers through it nonetheless. “I’m confused,” he explains quietly. “When we met, Richie told me he doesn’t want to be here, so I just… I don’t understand why he’s doing this if he doesn’t want to be at Kenduskeag in the first place.”

            A long moment of silence passes between the two of them, the sound of everyone else chatting mindlessly around them filling the air. Eddie’s just beginning the think Stan isn’t going to answer him at all when he suddenly sighs, scrubbing a hand over his features tiredly. “I’m gonna be real with you,” he says, his features strained when Eddie looks up at him, nodding expectantly. After a moment of pause, Stan continues with, “Richie is an incredible dancer. He always has been, ever since we were kids. He _does_ want to be here, no matter how much he says he doesn’t, and if he didn’t accept the scholarship, he would have regretted it. There’s just… a lot of things you don’t know, a lot of things that aren’t your business, okay? Stuff that only I know, and the only reason I know is because I’ve been by his side since we were in diapers.”

            “But why’d he say he doesn’t want to be here if that isn’t true?” Eddie asks, even more confused. He can’t imagine ever lying about something as important to him as attending this school. There’s nothing in this world that matters more to him than Kenduskeag and the opportunity that’s being given to him by being accepted to attend.

            “Because he’s selfless,” Stan answers simply. “He was gonna turn down the scholarship and stay home to take care of his family, but with enough coaxing from me and his parents, we convinced him not to. Now he feels guilty, like being here makes him selfish, like he’s a bad son, but if he tells himself he doesn’t _want_ to be here, he can convince himself that attending isn’t for him. He thinks of it as an opportunity for his family, so that he can use dancing to make money and take even better care of them.”

            Eddie parts his lips, but he makes no move to respond. He doesn’t know what to say.

            “Look,” Stan goes on, glancing between Eddie and the floor with a pained expression, looking guilty for having said so much. “The point is, you don’t know him, okay? I do. I know him better than anyone ever will, and I’m telling you, the asshole you claim he is? That’s not true. He’s the most genuine, kind-hearted guy I know. And you treating him like shit is killing him, so I’d really appreciate it if you laid off him a little bit. You don’t have to be friends with him, or like him, or anything. But, just… consider being a little nicer, you know? Or at least ignoring him instead of being so blatantly hostile.”

            “I’m not—” Eddie cuts off, grimacing, but he can’t finish the sentence because he knows that Stan’s right. He is unreasonably snappy and rude whenever Richie’s around. Eyes fluttering shut, he lets out a long, slow sigh, almost reluctant to say, “I… I can try. He still pisses me off, though.”

            With a shrug, Stan tells him, “He pisses me off, too, but I don’t treat him like a pile of shit.” Then, before Eddie can even think of a response, Stan’s phone starts to ring. As he’s pulling it out of his pocket, he tells Eddie, “It’s possible to be pissed off without being an asshole.”

            Letting out a soft laugh, Eddie nods to show his understanding, but he doesn’t bother speaking up as Stan looks down at his phone with his brows creased. He can easily see a gleam of worry in Stan’s eyes before he holds up a finger and gets to his feet. As he’s walking away, Eddie can hear him greeting Richie by name, followed quickly by _what’s going on?_

            It seems as if everyone can immediately tell something is off, as everyone gets eerily quiet at that moment, watching as Stan crosses the room, keeping his back to them. It’s silent for a long moment, but then Stan hisses out a shaky, _“Fuck,”_ and spins back around, eyes wide with a panicked sort of look in his gaze that makes everyone go tense in uncertainty. Still, though, no one speaks, only warily watching as Stan squeezes his eyes shut and nods. “Yeah, no, I’ll be right there, Rich. No, it’s fine. It’s _fine._ Don’t be sorry. This is why I wanted to go with you in the first place, okay? I mean it, Rich, it’s okay. Okay. Yeah, got it. I’ll be there as fast I can. I’ll call you from the car and let you know when I’m almost there.”

            Then, just like that, Stan ends the call.

            “What’s wrong?” Mike asks instantly, getting to his feet and taking a few quick steps towards Stan, who’s taking a moment to inhale slowly, eyes still closed. Placing a hand on Stan’s shoulder, Mike murmurs, “Is Richie okay?”

            Stan doesn’t answer, at least not at first, but he does blink open his eyes and scan the room slowly. When his gaze lands on Eddie, his jaw clenches, and he states, “You’re walking with me to my car. Now.” He doesn’t even wait for a response, though he does offer Mike a grateful half-smile before ducking out from under his hand and grabbing his wallet off the counter. Standing by the door, he looks at Eddie again, who has yet to react, and says, “Well? Come on. I’m not done talking to you, but I can’t waste any time. Let’s _go.”_

            Still shocked, but not willing to fight against the terrifyingly stern tone in Stan’s voice, Eddie does as he’s told, scrambling to his feet and making his way to the door. Without even acknowledging the others, who are staring after them in silent worry, Stan leads the way out into the hall, walking so fast that Eddie has to jog to keep up with him. Already a little breathless from confusion, Eddie asks, “What the hell is going on?”

            “We were talking about Richie,” Stan says simply. “I have to go, but I want to hear something from you first. I told you what I think about him, now I want you to tell me what _you_ think about him.”

            “Wh—” Eddie is cut off by Stan suddenly turning a corner and leaving him in the dust. Huffing out an annoyed breath, he spins on his heel and catches up quickly. “What do you mean, what I think about him? I told you, he pisses me off.”

            “But _why?”_ Stan pushes, casting a quick glare over his shoulder, and Eddie’s surprised to find that there’s no real anger in his eyes. All he can see is raw, genuine worry. _“Why_ does he piss you off?”

            Bewildered, Eddie shakes his head, but he can’t find it in him to respond quite yet as they push through a set of doors and make their way into the parking lot. The biting cold sends a rough shiver down his spine, and he can’t help but flush when he sees that there’s a surprising amount of people lingering around the cars – mostly students, but there does appear to be a small group of faculty members mingling by a car that looks far too expensive to belong to a college kid.

            Coming to a stop besides a plain black Honda, Stan spins around suddenly, not even flinching when Eddie practically stumbles into him, and repeats, “Why does Richie piss you off?”

            “Because!” Eddie responds, his voice bursting out of him much louder than intended, drawing the attention of the people around them. He pays them no mind, however, as he begins to list off, “He’s loud, he’s cocky, he’s a pain in the ass, and he’s only ever here, like, once a week! I mean, we live in a dorm room for a fucking reason, but I can practically count the amount of times he’s actually _stayed_ in our dorm on one fucking hand! It’s ridiculous!”

            Stan scoffs as he unlocks the car, but he doesn’t climb in yet, instead leveling Eddie with an unimpressed stare and stating, “That’s a bullshit reason and you know it.”

            “No, it’s not! It’s—”

            “Excuse me?”

            Eddie’s mouth snaps shut, an audibly heavy exhale whistling through his nose as he turns his head to eye the woman who approached them. He can vaguely recognize her, mostly just from passing her in the hallway, so he assumes that she’s a student – a senior, maybe a junior, seeing as she’s clearly older than they are.

            With their attention on her, the woman decides to continue, saying, “Sorry to interrupt, but I was just wondering. Did you say Richie? As in, Richie Tozier?”

            “No—”

            “Yes,” Eddie says, not realizing that Stan was responding until after speaking over him. Immediately, he can feel Stan’s glare settled on him again, only this time it’s definitely angry, gaze so heated that it nearly burns holes into Eddie’s skin. Swallowing roughly, Eddie pointedly avoids looking Stan’s way and asks, “Why? Do you know him?”

            The woman hums lightly, a calculative look in her eyes as she glances between the two of them. “Not personally,” she answers breezily, but there’s something about the way her lips twitch, as if she could either be holding back a grimace or a smile, that makes Eddie shift uncomfortably. He has a feeling he should have let Stan answer the question. “That’s all I had to ask. Happy Thanksgiving!”

            Both of them watch as she slinks away, and Eddie realizes, with a sour taste in his mouth and a ball of dread forming in his stomach, that she returns to the group of faculty across the lot. Not a student, then, and Stan apparently knows it as he turns to Eddie and snaps, “You’re a real piece of shit, Kaspbrak.”

            “Who was that?” Eddie asks, not bothering to defend himself. He has a feeling that Stan may not be wrong. That feeling makes him feel a little sick.

            “Who—” Stan cuts off with a condescending laugh, throwing open his car door and leaning against it for a moment, looking so unbelievably furious that Eddie fears he may actually burst into flames. Blazing eyes still on Eddie, Stan spits, “That’s the scholarship administrator. She’s in charge of giving out and revoking scholarships, and you just told her that Richie, a scholar student who is technically required to stay in the scholar dorms unless talking to administration for permission not to, only stays there once a week.”

            Eddie feels a little woozy hearing that. He isn’t sure what it means, but he can tell it isn’t good.

            With another humorless chuckle, Stan shakes his head and says, “Congratulations, I guess.”

            “For what?” Eddie asks slowly, feeling like his mouth of full of glue, words heavy on his tongue and his vision blurring as his thoughts begin to pick up speed in his mind. He fucked up. He doesn’t know how, but he fucked up.

            “You said Richie’s a pain in the ass,” Stan answers, finally sliding into the driver’s seat and turning the key in the ignition, the sound of the engine starting up sounding far away in Eddie’s ears. “Well, you definitely just got him in some major trouble, so he may not be a pain in your ass anymore. For all we know, you could have just cost him his scholarship. Happy fucking Thanksgiving.”

            Eddie sucks in a harsh breath, feeling as though he’s watching the scene from outside of his body as Stan slams the door shut and immediately speeds away. He can feel his stomach churning angrily, and for a moment he fears he may be sick on the asphalt, but when bile burns the back of his throat, he manages to swallow it back down. The world around him feels out of focus and unsteady, tilting this way and that. It isn’t until he feels himself colliding against the pavement that he realizes it wasn’t the world tilting, but rather himself, swaying in place until losing his balance completely.

            Scraped palms and aching muscles still isn’t enough to ground him, though, and in his mind, all he can hear is Stan’s voice. _You could have just cost him his scholarship,_ it sneers, venomous and angry. The words almost feel like physical wounds, which he can only describe as odd. Back in September, he had told Richie that he should have turned the scholarship down, but now the idea of being the reason Richie’s scholarship might be revoked makes him feel like the world is collapsing around him.

            _I fucked up,_ he thinks, and then he begins to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops angst sorryyyy
> 
> also i literally just posted a one shot where eddie draws richie a lot and then i couldn't resist having him draw richie in here too,,, my bad, but i love artist!eddie drawing richie ok it makes me weak (also this drawing is v important to the plot but the one shot was just meant to be cute)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its still friday where i am so this is technically on time!! not as much of a "monster chapter" as i had hoped, it's about the same amount of words as the first chapters, BUT the next chapter will probably end up being like,,, 15k words because a lot of shit happens

            Richie hasn’t spoken to Eddie in two weeks.

            A month ago, Eddie would have been exhilarated by this development – one of the most annoying things about Richie has been his inability to shut the fuck up since day one, after all. But now, Eddie hates it more than anything, hates the fact that he can feel the heaviness in the air, hates tossing and turning in bed and wondering if Richie will finally speak up and say something. He never does.

            What makes it worse is the fact that Richie hasn’t gone back to Witcham since returning from Thanksgiving break, actually staying in their dorm room every single night. According the Beverly – the only member of their group who he’s had the courage to speak to since he fucked up so badly – Richie was terrifyingly close to having his scholarship taken away, but after both him and Stan had a long meeting with the administrator, he was given a second chance. With that second chance, however, he was also given a new set of rules that he has to follow in order to remain a scholar student. Apparently, Richie was required to stay every single night up until winter break starts, and after returning from break, he will be required to stay every school night unless given express permission from administration.

            So, that’s the good news, then – Eddie didn’t get Richie kicked out of Kenduskeag. He just _almost_ got Richie kicked out of Kenduskeag.

            The bad news is… well. Everything else, Eddie supposes.

            But the worst part is the fact that Richie has not spoken to him, has barely even acknowledged his presence, since Thanksgiving. The closest Eddie has gotten to a proper interaction with him was when he was accidentally blocking the doorway to the bathroom and Richie cleared his throat to let him know he wanted by, and even that had felt reluctant and too tense for Eddie’s liking. He knows that Richie is angry with him – knows that Richie has every right to be pissed, to be madder than hell – but he just wishes that Richie would yell at him, hit him, something. Anything other than this suffocating silence that’s been weighing down his shoulders ever since Richie’s return.

            Even now, as they both get ready to head out to the Final Show, it’s heavy. Every movement feels slow, like he’s trying to maneuver through a room full of honey, despite the fact that Richie’s not even in here right now. No, he’s in the bathroom, has been for the past twenty minutes, and Eddie is just beginning to wonder if he should just leave before Richie comes out when the door opens. Unable to help himself, Eddie looks over at the sound of the doorknob clicking as it turns and the hinges complaining when the door swings open, revealing a Richie that’s clad in an outfit unlike any Eddie has seen him in before. His pants are somewhere between a light brown and a hazelnut, an off-white button up tucked into the waistband with a dark brown vest thrown over it, and what looks like a pair of brown worker boots. Eddie hasn’t watched Newsies in years, but he knows, thanks to Beverly keeping him informed, that the group Richie’s in will be performing a song from that musical, and the outfit definitely fits.

            Richie steps out of the bathroom, pointedly avoiding looking in Eddie’s general direction, and grabs his phone off of his bed. Apparently satisfied, he spins around and heads to the door, only to be stopped by Eddie very meekly murmuring, “Good luck.”

            The words kind of slip out on their own, unintended but still genuine. In Eddie’s mind, he thinks it’s a nice sentiment to try and start mending the mess he created, but to Richie, all it does is light the fire that he’s been trying to put out within his chest since finding out about what Eddie did. Slowly, visibly grinding his teeth together, he asks, “What’d you say?”

            “I…” Eddie trails off, feeling a little helpless. Unsure of what else to do, he softly repeats, “Good luck,” and hopes that Richie understands that he isn’t trying to be anything other than kind. It’s not a realistic thing to expect, though, since he hasn’t shown Richie an ounce of kindness since they met, but he can still hope the message comes across.

            Richie laughs, a tense, humorless kind of chuckle bubbling from somewhere in his stomach and gurgling in the back of his throat. The sound is worse than the silence, and Eddie wishes he hadn’t spoken at all – especially when Richie fixes him with a look equal parts cold and hurt, and with a venomous voice, he spits, “You don’t get to be nice to me now. You lost your shot there, Kaspbrak.”

            Swallowing roughly, Eddie averts his gaze to the ground, shaking his head once and trying not to let himself choke on the feeling of knowing he’s put himself in a position where he can’t argue his way out of it, because he’s the one in the wrong and he doesn’t know how to fix it. He can start, however, with an apology, so that’s what he decides to try. “I’m really sorry, Richie,” he says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Richie falter, and he thinks maybe apologizing will be enough to get somewhere, but then Richie clenches his jaw and huffs.

            “That’s not good enough,” Richie states. He doesn’t step forward or even lift a hand, but something about his demeanor feels much more threatening now than it had been a moment before. It makes Eddie shift his weight from foot to foot in uncertainty. “It would have been good enough two weeks ago,” Richie goes on. “Actually, anything would have been enough two weeks ago, because all I wanted was to be able to say hi to you without you acting like I killed somebody. I don’t even know _why_ I cared so much, but I _did_ , and you…” Richie scoffs, looking away and running a hand through his hair, looking as though he’s having an internal battle with himself. After a long moment, he sighs, shaking his head, and drops his hands back to dangle by his sides. “You’re an asshole,” he says. “That’s just- that’s all there is to it. I didn’t think you were an asshole, but you proved me wrong. You proved that you’re selfish, and rude, and heartless, and you judge people based on nothing, and care about no one but yourself. So, you know what? Fuck you. I’m done trying to make you like me. You made it pretty clear that you’d rather have me gone.”

            And that’s fair, Eddie knows. All of what Richie said, though objectively cruel, is completely justifiable. Eddie has wholeheartedly brought this upon himself with his behavior the past three and a half months. He realizes this. He understands this.

            But he’s also very defensive, which is precisely why Richie’s words make him so fucking mad.

            “You know literally nothing about me,” Eddie spits, his eyes narrowing down into a glare and focusing on Richie’s equally furious features. “I get it, I fucked up, but you can’t just fucking—”

            “Assume shit?” Richie finishes, cocking an eyebrow, looking almost amused underneath his anger. “Like how you assumed shit about me? I’m surprised. I didn’t peg you as a fucking hypocrite.”

            With an incredulous laugh, Eddie exclaims, “I didn’t assume _anything!_ You told me on the day we met that you didn’t want to be here. What was I supposed to think?”

            “That I had my reasons,” Richie tells him, shaking his head to himself. “That you didn’t know me and shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

            “Well, maybe if you told me—”

            “I shouldn’t have to tell you anything!” Richie yells, gesturing in front of him with wide, bewildered eyes. He doesn’t even look angry anymore, only lost, like he just can’t grasp the situation fully, like his mind is struggling to understand. Eddie supposes he’s struggling, too. “You were a stranger when we met, and you’re pretty much still a stranger now. I’m not fucking obligated to tell you my life story, okay? You shouldn’t have decided that I was some piece of shit because I said one thing that you didn’t even know the context behind!”

            Eddie falters, wanting to spit out something harsh and cruel, but he can’t think of a proper response. Richie is right, after all – Eddie had been quick to draw up answers to a question he didn’t even know yet – but that doesn’t mean that Eddie’s going to duck his head and give in. He’s angry now, too, and he wants to express that, even though he knows he’s going to regret it later. Which is why, with a deep grimace and an irritated huff of a breath, he grits out, “I don’t care if you have family you don’t want to leave, or whatever the fuck it is that makes you think you need to be back in Witcham all the time. I don’t give a shit, okay? I just care about the fact that you’re not here for the reasons you should be. You shouldn’t be here because of other people, you should be here because you want to be here.”

            “I do want to be here,” Richie states, his eyes steeled over and cold. “I love it here, I love being able to dance every day. I love every fucking minute of it, but you know what I love more? My family. Nothing is more important to me than them, and I don’t give a fuck about what you think you know, because you know nothing. Just because you and Stan talked doesn’t mean you understand everything, okay? So hop off your fucking high horse and get the fuck over yourself.”

            “Get over myself?” Eddie scoffs.

            Richie nods, his fingers twitching like he can’t decide if he wants to gesture more or not. “Yeah,” he says. “Get over yourself. It’s not all about you, okay? The world doesn’t revolve around what you want to know and how you feel. The world fucking sucks, alright? It’s shitty, and it’s hard, and it only gets harder when people like you—” he does gesture then, his hand flying out to indicate Eddie, “—trying to act all high and mighty when you’re just as fucked up as everyone else.”

            With a condescending hum, Eddie points out, “Sounds pretty hypocritical of you to assume that.”

            “It’s not an assumption,” Richie states, his arms crossing over his chest and his brows twitching together, making his eyes narrow into a weak little glare that he looks to exhausted to commit to. “Everyone’s fucked up, that’s just how it is. But hey, you want me to assume shit? Fine.” Before Eddie can even think of a response, Richie takes a single step closer, leaving approximately a foot of space between them. Begrudgingly, Eddie angles his head up to maintain eye contact, just as Richie says, “You said Chicago isn’t your home, you’ve never mentioned anything about your life before Kenduskeag, you refused to answer my question about why you were staying here for Thanksgiving, which basically just told me that there is trouble at home that makes you not want to go back, and you’re really fucking rude. If I were to pull a real Eddie right now and jump to conclusions that I shouldn’t make, I’d say your family doesn’t want you around because you’re a selfish asshole and treat them like shit, too. Am I close?”

            “Get out,” Eddie breathes, feeling his hands beginning to tremble as he points a finger towards the door. When Richie doesn’t move, he lurches forward and shoves him in the chest, raising his voice as he repeats, “Get out! Get the fuck out!”

            Stumbling back slightly, Richie reaches a hand out and holds onto the wall, looking at Eddie with a vacant stare. Flatly, he asks, “It doesn’t feel good to have people assume the worst about you, does it?” Then, without another word, he spins around and leaves.

            In his wake, Eddie sits heavily on his bed, his breathes heaving and aching in his chest. He knows that Richie wasn’t close with his assumptions, was actually very far off from the truth, but it’s the premise of what Richie did that’s getting to him – the fact that Richie is, once again, completely right, and Eddie has no one to blame but himself for the position he’s in.

            God, he can’t wait for winter break to start.

            Only one more day, and then he’ll be free of any and all stress for two whole weeks.

            The day can’t go fast enough.

 

 

 

 

            In the Main Hall, nearly every member of Kenduskeag mingles, students and faculty alike. On one end of the building is the creative writing section, where all the writers have selected a single piece of work to put out for everyone to read. It is in this section that Ben’s poem sits, as well as Bill’s short story, both of which have received plenty of praise thus far.

            Further in, besides the creative writing section, is the large general arts area, which is where pieces – both traditional art and digital art, as well as graphic design – are hung up for people to admire, ranging anywhere from classic paintings to more abstract things. It is within this area that Eddie’s art book is on display for people to flip through. Though he wouldn’t care to admit it, Richie stops to look through it whilst meandering down the Main Hall, and is pleasantly surprised by many of the things he finds within. If he weren’t so thoroughly angry with Eddie, he would have immediately sought the boy out in the crowd and complimented him, but that’s not an option in this moment, so he merely sets the art book down and walks away.

            There are some more sections after that, sculptures and interior design and various others, but it’s in the photography section that Stan currently stands, his jaw unhinged and his eyes wide as he looks at the display before him.

            Stan has been aware of Mike’s talent since they first met and he saw the photographs Mike had taken for his adventure assignment. His style is oddly specific to him, capable of carrying a certain kind of vibe that is unmistakably Mike. For the past month, Stan has been looking forward to seeing the pictures that Mike was planning on printing out and putting up for everyone to see.

            But this… this is not what he was expecting.

            Hanging up on the wall before him, there are three large photographs. The one on the left is of what Stan would consider an offensively gorgeous sunset, showing off the gradience between blues and pinks and oranges and purples, displaying the blend of colors above the horizon. Below the beautiful, colorful sky, there is the slope of land that Stan can recognize as the large hill bordering one side of Kenduskeag Valley, the silhouette of trees and bushes looking black in comparison to what’s above it. Stan’s never been one to really appreciate a sunset before, but this picture makes him want to rethink that.

            The photograph on the right has less to do with nature and more to do with the small city of Kenduskeag, the colors somewhat bland but still somehow stunning to look at. The picture is of the road leading up to the college, where there are strings of lights lining the street – early Christmas decorations that have been there since the beginning of November. While his family may not celebrate the holiday, Stan certainly appreciates the beauty of the traditions that come with it, lights included. The photo is simplistic yet gorgeous, which Stan believes is a wonderful description of the photographer that took it.

            What’s catching his eye, however, is the middle photograph.

            From what Stan can tell, it was taken about a week after their friend group first formed, when they were still kind of wary of each other but were still spending as much time together as they possibly could. They spent a lot of time watching movies, listening to movies, and just enjoying each other’s company – very similar to what they still do now, but back in September, these activities were more like ice breakers than anything else. After all, it took two weeks of this before Ben felt comfortable enough to joke around with them, and it wasn’t until the third week that he started poking and prodding and teasing everyone else like the group often did with each other.

            On the night of this picture, though, they had been having a marathon of classic movies, such as The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. This movie marathon had been held at Mike and Ben’s dorm room, which is why Mike had such easy access to his camera in the first place. As the hours had dwindled on, they slowly began to taper off into a deep sleep, one by one, until it was only Stan and Mike that remained. Looking back on it, Stan can vaguely remember Mike leaving the room to fetch his camera, and he can vaguely remember hearing the clicks as Mike took pictures of the room, the moonlight shining through the window, their friends, and—

            And Stan. He took pictures of Stan, and one of those pictures is currently hanging on the wall for their entire school to see. The odd part is, he doesn’t really mind, even though he probably should.

            The picture is… flattering, for lack of a better word. Stan’s eyes are half-lidded from being awake at such an ungodly hour, his features sleep-soft and gentle, the shadow of his lashes casting over the curve of his cheekbones. He’s always hated having brown eyes, but in this picture they look like so much more than just brown – they look alive, like a bowl of melted chocolate, warm and kind and inviting. His naturally pinkish lips are curled up at the ends in what can only be described as a smitten half-smile. The shape of his jaw compliments his features and the slope of his neck of covered half way by a warm blanket that he’d been cuddled under at the time. Looking at the photo now, Stan can’t help but blush.

            “Do you like it?”

            Jumping slightly, Stan turns his head, almost reluctant to tear his gaze away from the picture, and finds Mike standing by his side, his features vulnerable and nervous. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Stan nods, glancing back and forth between the picture and Mike, before hesitantly answering, “It’s beautiful, Mike, but I… I don’t think I understand, uh…”

            Mike doesn’t interrupt, only cocking his head to the side and watching with rapt interest as Stan stammers his way over his words, trying to settle on what, exactly, he wants to say.

            “I don’t get why you chose it,” he finally manages to get out, scraping his teeth over his lower lip in an attempt to keep himself from biting down on it instead. It still doesn’t convey exactly what he’s feeling – because he’s feeling a whole lot right now, more than he can begin to comprehend – but it’s enough to get this conversation somewhere, rather than leaving the two of them standing here in uncertain silence. Voice quiet, timid, Stan explains, “I just mean… I’ve seen your photography, you know? And I know there’s better pictures than this one, so…”

            “There’s not,” Mike says simply, and if there wasn’t blatant nervousness flashing in his eyes, Stan might have crumpled in on himself for feeling so on edge. “I looked at all the pictures I took this quarter, and these three were my favorite. None of the others were even close to being as good as these ones. Plus, each photo shows off something different, you know?” Gesturing at the photographs from left to right, he elaborates with, “This one shows my ability to photograph nature, this one shows my ability to photograph people, and this one shows my ability to photograph cities. And, besides, I was going for a theme, and I think these really capture what I wanted.”

            Stan hesitates slightly, unsure which part of Mike’s rambling he wants to address first, before deciding on asking, “What was the theme?”

            And Mike’s been looking at him this whole time, but suddenly it feels like his eyes are alight with something that Stan can’t understand, can’t even begin to process. With his voice low and smooth, soothing and kind, he answers, “These pictures represent the way I see the world.”

            “Oh.” Stan thinks his knees may buckle beneath him and send him sprawled across the floor, but he chooses not to acknowledge that, instead meeting Mike’s gaze head-on, biting down on his tongue to keep himself from saying something he shouldn’t. That proves to be useless, however, as Stan’s body, unable to form words, decides to react in a different way.

            In the future, Stan may claim that this action was well thought out and intentional, but in this moment it is spontaneous, caution thrown carelessly into the wind, and all he knows is that one moment he is standing there, and the next moment he has Mike’s shirt fisted in his hands and their mouths are molded together in a tender kiss that leaves him feeling dizzy. It isn’t particularly passionate or heated, more of a simple pressing of lips with minimal movement that’s meant to convey the words that his tongue can’t seem to form, but it feels damn near magical, the sounds of other people in the Main Gall muffled and far away from here, a little bubble surrounding them and keeping them secluded from the outside world. When they pull apart, it’s simultaneous, the two of them breathing in deeply, and Stan isn’t sure when Mike raised a hand to cup his jaw but he can feel the pad of his thumb swiping gently over the skin below his ear, and something about that is much more calming than anything else he’s ever experience prior to now.

            They’re breathing each other in, soaking in the moment, letting the reality that they just kissed sink in, when Stan murmurs, “I wrote my song about you.”

            “Your song?” Mike asks, mildly surprised, but not enough to pull away any farther. Their foreheads aren’t pressed together but they are close, to the point where any movement results in them touching, noses brushing together. Stan’s fists have loosened out into flattened hands pressing into the creases in Mike’s shirt caused by his previous grip, and as he’s smoothing over these wrinkles, Mike clarifies, “The song you’re singing today?”

            “Yeah,” Stan confirms, his voice a little breathless, his features a little raw and open. Mike openly admires him, eyes glimmering, as Stan says, “I didn’t know what to write it about for a long time, but then I got the idea to write it about you, and it just… came together. I think it could be way better, but Ben and Richie both said that it’s really good. They said you’d like it, but I didn’t think I’d tell you it was about you before singing it. I hope they were right.”

            “I already know I’m going to love it,” Mike assures, bringing up his other hand to mirror the first, cupping both sides of Stan’s jaw in his palms and gently thumbing over the skin there, soft from being shaven earlier that day, getting rid of whatever stubble there may or may not have been. Unable to help it, Stan releases a pleased hum at this, beyond relaxed by the gentle caresses, and with a sharp inhale, Mike asks, “Can I kiss you again?”

            Eyes already fluttering shut, Stan whispers, “Please do,” and leans forward to meet Mike half way, feather-light touches and languid movements, no hurry or rush pushing them on. For a moment, they forget they’re in public, so lost in the feeling of each other that the world around them fades away, but then someone clears their throat and the moment comes to an end.

            Pulling away again, though he’s very much reluctant to do so, Stan looks over to see his Intro to Songwriting professor standing there, glancing between them with the awkwardness of a teacher but the fondness of a distant relative. Once she realizes that she has his attention, however, she quickly tells him, “Performers have to be backstage in five to make sure they know when they need to be ready to perform and when they need to be in the audience.”

            “Okay,” Stan nods, only just now realizing that his hands are still pressed to Mike’s shirt. With reddened cheeks, his withdraws them, completely breaking contact between the two of them, and asks, “Did you want me to go right this second, or…?”

            “No, I want you to make sure you know when they’re expecting you,” his professor answers breezily, her smile wide and kind as she begins to back away from them. “I’ll leave you guys to it, but don’t be too long. You have to be there in five minutes, no later than that. Got it?”

            Stan can see Mike grinning out of the corner of his eye and feels his own lips twitching into a smile. “Got it,” he promises her, and just like that, she’s spinning around and scurrying off to find the rest of her students to tell them the same thing. Turning back to face Mike fully, Stan can barely manage to get out a quiet, “So—” before Mike is kissing him again. Not that he’s complaining, of course.

            If he has five more minutes, he’d like to spend them doing exactly this.

 

 

 

 

            On the opposite end of the Main Hall is the Kenduskeag Theatre. In this theatre, performers and filmmakers will be showing off their contributions – performers, with the large stage positioned in front of the hundreds and hundreds of seats; filmmakers, with a projector up in the light booth and a screen built above the stage. In the audience, the entire student body and every member of faculty sits, waiting to see what will be shown to them, a lot of them anxious for the moment where they’ll have to head backstage to get ready for their own performances.

            As the clock hits five in the afternoon, the lights go down and the nervous chatter comes to a halt, everyone holding their breath to see what will come first. On the screen, The Misunderstood of Kenduskeag begins to play.

            The documentary starts like this:

            It is a black screen, music – provided by Stan – playing softly in the background, creating a nice sense of calm to settle over the room as everyone watches with interest. Through the vacant space, Beverly’s voice rises, her words written across the screen in order to caption what she is saying.

            “On September 7, 2018, I came back to Kenduskeag for my second year of school, and I met my roommate, Audra Phillips.” The font chosen is somewhere between regular scrawl and a flowy cursive, simplistic and nice to look at. As those words fade away, more appear, as Beverly’s voice continues with, “I already knew about her, for a lot of reasons. I knew about how talented she was, I knew about how dedicated she was, and I knew that a lot of people were saying a lot of things about her. Things that weren’t very nice, you know? Things that I wasn’t sure I believed.”

            In the audience, Audra watches with rapt interest, having not seen the final cut of the documentary yet. Silently, she reaches over and grabs Beverly’s hand, who clutches back just as tightly.

            Again, the words on screen fade, being replaced by what Beverly’s voice adds. “Since then, I’ve learned a lot about Audra Phillips, and I know now that those rumors I heard before weren’t true, and I discovered the truth behind who she is. In this documentary, I plan to show everyone else the girl that I know. So, let’s hop right in, shall we?”

            The screen, though still a plain black background, suddenly shows this:

 

**THE MISUNDERSTOOD OF KENDUSKEAG**

**STARRING AUDRA PHILLIPS**

**MADE BY BEVERLY MARSH**

 

            For a moment, the audience erupts in a soft murmuring of voices, students and faculty both leaning over to mutter their curiosities to each other, before silence settles over them again. The film goes on, the black screen turning into a series of short clips shot over the months, mostly behind-the-scenes shots of Audra smiling or laughing whilst Beverly adjusts the position or the settings of the camera. The music is still playing, a simple instrumental consisting of piano and guitar, and Audra’s voice comes from the speakers, saying, “I was raised in Renton, Washington, about eleven miles away from downtown Seattle. If you look it up, Wikipedia says that it’s an inner-ring suburb, but I wouldn’t describe it like that. It’s a city, sure, but it’s nothing like Seattle. At least, not in my eyes. I’ve always preferred Seattle over Renton, just ‘cause I’m a city girl at heart and Renton doesn’t feel like a city in comparison, you know?”

            It cuts here to a video of Audra, looking behind the camera as Beverly’s voice asks, “What about family? What’re your parents like?”

            “They’re good,” Audra answers, though it’s evident that her eyes have become a little sad. “I mean, we’ve had our ups and downs, of course. We’ve, uh… we’ve had a lot of disagreements, a lot of fights, mostly about me wanting to be an actress, but we always get through them.” Then, it cuts to a similar looking clip, only the lighting is much warmer, the framing a bit more intimate, Audra’s voice a bit more soft as she says, “I got into acting because of all the movies I watched with my grandmother as a kid. She’d show me her favorite movies, and I’d try to recreate the scenes because if how much she loved them. I just wanted to make her smile, you know? But then, uh… I really liked it, playing these characters. I… I _loved_ it, actually, and I decided then and there that I wanted to star in movies myself.”

            “And you’ve stuck with it since then?”

            Audra looks directly into the camera, her eyes bright, and everyone in the audience feels like she’s looking directly at them when she says, “Yeah, I have. And I plan to stick with it for the rest of my life, no matter what anyone does to try and stop me.”

            From there, the documentary continues on to explain more about who Audra is as a person, her interests and her hobbies, likes and dislikes. There are many clips that include Beverly and Audra joking around together, their conversations light and entertaining, often drawing scattered laughter from the people watching. Within the audience, Beverly tightens her hold on Audra’s hand, swallowing roughly. The reaction thus far has been ideal, but that doesn’t mean it won’t turn south, especially since this is still the light-hearted part of the documentary.

            After a few more minutes of this, it gets serious.

            “Tell me about the rumors,” Beverly’s voice says from off camera, the scene now much more gentle, the music softening into something much more subtle, barely even there. There’s a tension that hangs over the theatre then, everyone collectively holding their breath as they watch Audra shift uncomfortably on the screen. The question hangs there for a long moment.

            “They started about half way through my second year,” Audra eventually answers, her voice even and steeled over, but there’s an aching sadness in her gaze, vulnerable and painful to look at. “I still don’t know who started them, or why they did it, but… one day, I went to class, and everyone was staring at me, whispering about me, laughing at me. It wasn’t until someone came up and asked me about them that I even knew what everyone was talking about.”

            “And what were the rumors about?”

            Audra looks behind the camera, where the audience can only assume Beverly had been sitting, and then looks directly into the lens again, only now her features are drawn up, lower lip trembling, eyes watery. Everyone watching can collectively feel their own hearts aching in their chests as she says, “They were about me… sleeping my way into the school.”

            In the moment of silence that follows, a pin being dropped could have been heard.

            “The rumors said that I only got in because I put out,” Audra goes on, her voice hoarse and so, so sad. “They, uh… they said that I wasn’t going to get accepted, but I got ahold with someone from administration and convinced him to let me in by sleeping with him. People were so sure that it was true, that the member of administration I was rumored to sleep with got fired. It’s a miracle I wasn’t kicked out entirely.”

            “Are the rumors true?” Beverly’s voice asks, and it’s evident in how strained her words are that she didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to imply that she believed them at all, but she had to, for the sake of this documentary. For the sake of getting the full story out there, allowing everyone to see it for what it is, all the raw aspects and hardships that came with what was likely supposed to be an innocent white lie.

            One screen, Audra shakes her head, a single tear rolling down her cheek and a humorless laugh bubbling past her lips. “No,” she states firmly, still staring directly into the camera, causing the audience to shift in their seats. “No, they’re not true. The fact that people believed them at all baffles me.”

            Again, the documentary shifts, only now it sticks with the more heavy side of things, going in depth about how the rumors have affected Audra’s life, how she’s considered dropping out every day since the day people started pointing and laughing at her. The clip of her crying in Beverly’s arms brings a stiff, shocked silence to the theatre, and when Beverly looks around the room, she can see a handful of people tearing at as well. It’s about five more minutes of this kind of conversation, and then it reaches the end, where the screen goes black again and it’s just a voice over by Beverly saying, “Audra Phillips is a lot of things.”

            The words appear, simple and pleasant, and promptly fade away.

            “She’s talented. She’s genuine. She’s funny. She’s kind.”

            As Beverly’s voice lists these things off, a bulleted list come onto the screen.

            “She’s become a vital part of my friend group, and of my life in general. She’s proven to me, over and over again, that’s she’s stronger than anyone ever gives her credit for. She’s independent. She’s incredible and wonderful and every other positive word anyone can possibly think of.”

            It changes, showing a clip of Audra again, grinning wide and cheesy, and as she grins, she says, “If people want to hate me, that’s fine, but I’d rather they hate me for things that weren’t made up, you know? Hate me for a legitimate reason, and I can respect that.”

            “But most of all,” Beverly’s voice over continues, the clip of Audra fading away, music swelling in the background, “Audra Phillips is a fighter. In ten years time, I have no doubt that Audra will be in movies, on Broadway, being a star and living her dreams, and nothing, not even the worst rumors anyone can try to throw her way, will be able to stop her. So, if you want a word of advice: support her, believe in her, and treat her right. If you don’t, you’ll lose the chance to have one of the best people this world has to offer by your side, and you’ll end up regretting that for the rest of your life.”

            As the music reaches a crescendo, the credits begin to roll, crediting Stan for his help and Mike for assisting Beverly in the editing process. In the audience, Beverly and Audra hold their breaths, waiting to see the reaction they’ll get. For what feels like an entire thirty seconds, nothing happens.

            Then, something does, and the applause is deafening.

            All around them, their friends get to their feet, grinning down at them and cheering loudly, bringing their hands together over and over again to clap as loud as they possibly can, Sitting on Beverly’s left side, Richie reaches down and pulls her out of her seat. Due to their hands still being linked, Audra comes up with her, and they share a wide, breathless grin before pulling each other in for a tight embrace, feeling intoxicated by the cheering still surrounding them.

            Pulling back just enough to press her lips close to Beverly’s ear, Audra tells her, “Thank you.”

            “For what?” Beverly asks, having to shout a bit to be heard. She withdraws to give Audra a look of confusion, brows drawn together, frowning slightly.

            “For this,” Audra says, gesturing vaguely around them, her grin wide and watery. “For wanting to do this for me. For caring about me. For being nice. For everything, I guess.”

            Beverly shakes her head, wanting to protest Audra’s gratitude, wanting to tell her there’s nothing to thank her for, wanting to assure that she’d do it all again in a heartbeat. The words get stuck, though, and the audience only seems to be getting louder with every passing second, and when Richie nudges her in the side and she looks back to see him looking at her knowingly, she decides that there’s only one way to convey the things she can’t figure out how to say.

            She leans in, trembling hands cupping Audra’s face gently, and she kisses her.

            If the applause had been loud before, now it’s damn-near painful to listen to, ringing in their ears and bouncing around in their skulls, but neither of them can be bothered to care.

 

 

 

 

            Eddie isn’t sure how many performances he’s watched since arriving to the Final Show. After the incredible beginner that was Bev and Audra’s documentary, the rest have begun to blur together – a song here, a dance there, a couple short movies thrown in the mix. It’s not that these performances are bad, quite the contrary, but Eddie’s mind is still a little preoccupied with the fight he and Richie had earlier, running over the things they both said and trying to rationalize the way he should feel about it all, how he should handle the situation from here.

            Sure, Richie is leaving tomorrow for winter break, but they still have to stay in the same dorm tonight, and he’d really rather have the night be as civil as humanly possible. He thought about staying with Beverly for the night, but he had seen her kiss with Audra from his seat many rows back, so he knows that he shouldn’t bother their alone time right now. Especially since he knows that Beverly would happily take him in, her own life be damned, and he doesn’t want to intrude like that.

            It’s as Eddie is mulling over this this Don Hagarty’s short film begins to play on the screen.

            As Mike had said back on Thanksgiving, Don chose to make his contribution a behind the scenes video of Adrian’s rehearsals. Eddie doesn’t even realize that’s what’s playing until his gaze, a bit unfocused, lands on Richie’s face.

            The short film is only six, maybe seven minutes long, consisting of various clips of the group, which appears to consist of twentyish dancers, working on a dance that Eddie can vaguely recognize – again, he hasn’t watched Newsies in years, but he’s able to pinpoint the familiarity easily enough to know that this is definitely a recreation of the show. He still doesn’t know which song it is they’ll be performing, but the film is plenty interesting on it’s own, and he absentmindedly realizes that he’s never really seen Richie dance before, save for Halloween, when he’d walked in on Richie dancing along to Cell Block Tango, but he doesn’t think that counts. What he sees in this video is much different.

            In every clip that Richie is in, he looks focused and serious, his brows drawn together, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration, but even then, he’s grinning, looking absolutely elated every time he lands a move properly. Eddie watches with rapt interest, unable to look away, previous thoughts forgotten, as he watches this, and when the short film ends, he can’t help but feel a little disappointed, wishing there was more.

            The disappointment doesn’t last very long.

            Once the video comes to an end, music begins to pick up.

            _You don’t need money when you’re famous, they gives you whatever you want!_

            The dancers file onto stage, and none of them are saying anything, the voice coming from the speakers, but they still act like they’re the ones really performing it, pushing and nudging each other playfully. It takes a moment for Eddie to locate Richie within the group, clad in the outfit as earlier, only now he looks overjoyed, his grin wide and his eyes bright with excitement. As King of New York really starts, he gets gently shoved into the center of what quickly becomes a half circle of the rest of the dancers, and just as the first official line of the song comes on, Richie pulls out what appears to be a newspaper that had been tucked into the waistband of his pants. He mouths along to the first line of the song, twirling the paper around in the air. He grins as someone else to steps forward and takes the paper from his to take the following line, and the third person steps up for the line after that. As a fourth person comes up for the next line, Richie snatches the paper from him and steps forward again, placing himself just a little bit away from the rest of the group.

            _Look at me, I’m the King of New York,_ the song echoes through the auditorium, but Richie doesn’t mouth along this time, instead holding the paper out in front of him, and this is where the dancing really starts to happen. At first it’s just Richie, performing a move that Eddie can definitely recall seeing from Newsies, before a few others join in, and then a few others, until it’s all of them. Some of the moves they pull are directly from the original show, but most of the choreography is original, from what Eddie can tell – not that he’s paying too much attention to the actual choreography. His eyes are glued to Richie, unable to look away, following the way he moves with ease, looking in his element on the stage.

            At some point, someone must bring out some props, because Eddie doesn’t recall there being tables and chairs when the dancers came out, but suddenly Richie is hopping onto a table top, and Eddie is awe-struck, almost in a trance as he watches the way he saunters across the surface and easily goes back to the dance – tap dance, of course, because this is King of New York, a song famous for it’s intense tap dancing routine, the one that everyone can’t wait to see when they see the musical on Broadway.

            Just as Eddie is sure he can’t be more impressed, the dance break begins.

            Dancing has always been something that Eddie admires, if not for the fact that it’s something he loves to watch, then for the fact that he knows he’d never be able to work so well with other people. While Richie may have pissed him off earlier, he was right about one think – Eddie is a selfish person, but it’s not because he wants to be. His father was incredible, but after Frank Kaspbrak’s death, Eddie was forced to grow up with a mother who manipulated him and made him feel guilty for doing anything for himself. A couple years of that, and Eddie said fuck it, and started acting in his best interest and his best interest only. Being a selfishly stubborn person like himself, he wouldn’t be able to work in a group like this. He’d get too frustrated, and he’d give up because of lost patience.

            Richie isn’t like that. He’s a pain in the ass, sure, and Eddie doesn’t understand him in the slightest, but he isn’t selfish. Eddie respects him for that, though he doesn’t know if he’d ever admit it.

            It’s evident in this dance break how much of a team player Richie is, because he doesn’t try to make himself the center of attention, doesn’t try to outshine his dance mates. He simply dances, having the time of his time, his forehead gleaming with a sheen of sweat and his features elated, and maybe it’s just Eddie, but it feels like the spotlight falls on Richie naturally, everyone enraptured with his performance, unable to look away. His movements flow together perfectly, and it almost looks easy, the way he does the choreography. He may be part of a group, but Eddie can’t say he sees any of the other dancers on stage. Right now, he only sees Richie, and he isn’t sure what that means.

            The chorus kicks back in, and they’re still dancing as a unit, but Eddie still doesn’t look away from Richie, seeing his chest heaving with the exertion of energy, his face slightly red, but even with how tiring the dance clearly is, he doesn’t stop smiling. Eddie’s seen Richie grin, but never like this.

            For the first time since they met, Eddie is witnessed a truly happy Richie, and he wonders if this is how Richie looks when he’s back in Witcham with his family. That thought makes him feel guilty, though, so he pushes it away, swallowing roughly and slumping in his seat. He momentarily tears his gaze away and looks down at his hands, fingers twisting together in his lap and stomach curling uncomfortably, but he can’t keep his eyes away and, soon enough, he’s looking at Richie again.

            Eddie’s never been addicted to something before, but he thinks it feels something like this – a swoop in his gut, an itching need to never look away, and odd and indescribable sense of satisfaction and calm as he watches.

            When the song ends and the dancers all bow, everyone around him stands and cheers, but he doesn’t move. His legs feel too weak to hold himself up, his throat dry, his thoughts an awry, jumbled up mess, but he wants to applaud. He wants to be the loudest one in the audience. He wants Richie to find him in the crowd and smile that wide, gleeful smile.

            And when the next person comes on stage to perform, Eddie doesn’t bother paying attention. He only looks, dazed and confused by his own mind, as Richie makes his way back into the theatre and returns to his seat, only a few rows in front of where Eddie is sitting. Unable to help himself, Eddie keeps staring at him, watching as Richie blushes under the hushed praise of the others, and he still looks elated.

            Assumedly feeling the eyes on him, he turns and meets Eddie’s gaze. For a moment, his features steel over, a flash of anger and a hint of uncertainty, but it melts away after a minute, and he seems reluctant, but he nods at Eddie curtly, an acknowledgment of his presence. When he looks away, Eddie releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding, and he tries not to think too hard.

 

 

 

 

            As it nears eight o’clock in the evening, a majority of performers already done, Stan steps out onto the stage. He looks timid and shy, his wide eyes reflecting how nervous he is and his lips tugged down at the corners, creating a small, pouty frown. Steps shaky and quick, he makes his way to the center of the stage and lowers himself onto the stool awaiting him there, his ukulele already in his hand, his grip so tight that his knuckles turn white. Everything about him screams that he’s afraid.

            Mike has never felt so warm and fuzzy looking at someone before.

            While settling on the stool, positioning the ukulele in his lap, Stan sweeps his gaze over the audience before finding Mike in the crowd, and while he still looks terrified, he can’t help but smile slightly. He looks reluctant to break eye contact, but he has to in order to adjust the capo on the neck of his instrument, doing a quick test strum to make sure it sounds right. Satisfied, he clears his throat, glances back up to meet Mike’s gentle gaze, and starts playing the first chord.

            Kenduskeag Theatre is not particularly grand, but the sound of his ukulele echoing across the room is a little dizzying and intimidating, making him want to shrink in on himself. Mike can see how much he’s struggling to keep calm, his fingers visibly trembling where they’re pressed to the fret of the uke, creating a D chord, which changes to n A, then to a C, and ending with a G. Just before switching back to a D, Stan leans into the microphone placed in front of him, takes a deep breath, and begins to sing.

 

                        _When I met you that day_

_Didn’t know what to say_

_But I stammered my way through_

_I made a fool of myself_

_That hasn’t happened with nobody else_

 

            His singing voice isn’t much different to his normal one, gentle and lovely to listen to. Mike releases a slow, wistful sigh and leans forward in his seat, as if that will make him hear it better. The lyrics are sweet thus far, and knowing that they’re about Mike is… he doesn’t even know how to explain it. It makes him feel nice, sentimental.

 

                        _When you smiled at me_

_It was all I could see_

_Everything else was a blur_

_Yes, you were the center of all my attention_

_And oh, boy, this feeling’s so unprecedented_

            By this point, Stan’s decided to keep his eyes on Mike, gaze not straying or wandering anywhere else. It only makes sense to sing the song directly to the person that this is about, and if he focuses hard enough on the way Mike’s eyes shine in the darkness, barely visible through the spotlight shining down on him, he can almost pretend that there’s no one else in the room but them. Realistically, he knows that isn’t true, but with the two of them maintaining eye contact, he doesn’t feel as afraid.

            There’s nothing to be afraid of, not when Mike – the kindest, most lovely person Stan has ever met – is right there, looking at him like he hung the stars.

 

                        _You, yeah you_

_Pretty brown eyed boy_

_Won’t you be my pretty brown eyed boy?_

_And I, I_

_I feel like I could fly_

_As long as pretty brown eyed boy is by my side_

 

            Mike absolutely _beams_ at these lyrics, and Stan almost stops singing entirely just to appreciate the way he looks. It’s a little overwhelming, a little hard to process, the fact that Mike clearly likes the song so far, if his grin is anything to go by. Something that Stan wrote is making Mike look that happy.

            As he hums lightly, making sure the lyrics for the second verse are in the forefront of his mind, he thinks he might write a hundred songs for Mike, just to make him this happy again.

 

                        _Ever since then_

_Seen you again and again_

_Each time is better than the last_

_My heart beats so much faster whenever I’m with you_

_Being so smitten’s not something I’m used to_

 

            He realizes, absently, that the rest of his friends are swaying along to the song, all of them looking overjoyed and proud. With a small smile, he scans over all of them, and all his nervousness drains out of him so suddenly that it almost makes him lightheaded, the tension in all his muscles relaxing and allowing him to really enjoy this moment. Briefly, his eyes land on Eddie, and he’s still pissed off at all the shit Eddie’s done to Richie, but not even that anger can ruin his current mood, so he just smiles at him and then looks over the entire crowd, drawing in their reactions as much as he possibly can from where he is sitting.

            In the audience, Mike has to hold back tears, because Stan is doing such a good job and he’s so fucking proud of him. On his right side, he sees Richie looking at him, and the two of them share a wide grin before leaning forward in their seats even more, soaking in each and every word – Mike, because the words are about him, and Richie, because him and Stan are basically brothers and he’s always dreamed of seeing Stan playing in front of a crowd like this.

 

                        _You, yeah you_

_Pretty brown eyed boy_

_Won’t you be my pretty brown eyed boy_

_And I, I_

_I feel like I could fly_

_As long as pretty brown eyed boy is by my side_

 

            As Stan hums, it takes all of his self control to not giggle giddily under his breath, because everyone he looks at seems invested in his song. Every single face he’s looked at thus far has shown a positive reaction – including his Intro to Songwriting professor, who’s beaming at him like a proud aunt – and, while he knew the song wasn’t bad, this is the first time he’s felt like it’s really good. For the first time since writing it, he feels proud of himself for creating something like this. For creating something that not only he likes, but that other people like as well.

_And if you will_

_I would like more still_

_I want you_

_I want you_

 

            With these lines, he returns his gaze directly to Mike again, making it abundantly obvious what this part means. Mike keeps grinning, but his eyes begin to shine with disbelief, like he can’t quite grasp that this is happening. Stan supposes that’s fair, since he’s still struggling to realize that they kissed earlier – not just once, but three times, before Stan had to go. He kind of can’t wait to find out where these developments will lead them, though the impending two week break looming overhead isn’t promising, seeing as Stan will be in Witcham and Mike will be back in Kansas, but he knows it’ll work out.

 

                        _And if I can_

_I’d like to be your man_

_I want you_

_I want…_

 

            The strumming slows, becomes soft, matching the raw meaning behind the words.

 

                        _You, yeah you_

_Pretty brown eyed boy_

_Won’t you be my pretty brown eyed boy?_

_And I, I_

_I feel like I could fly_

_As long as pretty brown eyed boy is by my side_

 

            He cycles through the chords one more time, humming lightly, before strumming a final D chord and letting it ring out in the air. For a long moment, it’s silent – until, much like with The Misunderstood of Kenduskeag, a deafening applause roars from the crowd, and Stan is left there, grinning to himself and ducking his head slightly as he steps off the stool, feeling bashful as he offers a little bow in gratitude before making his way off the stage for the next performer. He places his uke on the stand he brought, kept backstage for him to grab later, and quickly makes his way back to the audience to reclaim his place by Mike’s side.

            Immediately, his friends are looking at him proudly, all of them looking ready to burst with praise but knowing that they have to remain quiet while someone is on stage. Still, he smiles at them, letting them know that he’s grateful for all the things they’ll surely tell him latter, before lowering himself into his seat, his eyes fixed solely on Mike.

            Before either of them can murmur a word, Richie is clambering over Mike, practically sitting on his lap as he pulls Stan into a tight hug, excitedly whispering, “You killed it, Uris! You fucking killed it!” in his ear. Laughing lightly, Stan returns the embrace, still feeling elated from the performance he gave.

            “Thanks, Rich,” he whispers back. He catches Mike’s gaze, which is equal parts amused and fond, over Richie’s shoulder, causing him to lower his voice even further and say, “I love you like hell, Tozier, but if you don’t get back to your seat in two seconds, I’m going to kill you.”

            “I would be offended, but I saw you smooching up Hanlon earlier, so I understand,” Richie tells him, voice just as soft, so only the two of them can hear. Unable to help it, Stan snickers at that, too happy to be embarrassed, and Richie sends him a wink as he maneuvers his way back to his seat. He doesn’t say anything else, but the look on his face says it all, which only serves to make Stan’s snickers turn into fully-fledged giggles that result in someone a few rows in front of them to loudly shush him.

            Muffling his laughter with the palm of his hand, Stan slumps down in his seat, shoulders shaking slightly, and lulls his head to the side to look at Mike, who’s staring down at him with an odd look of wonder. Not wanting to risk his laughter getting any louder, Stan doesn’t verbally ask what this look is for, instead raising his eyebrows in silent question, prompting Mike to breathlessly murmurs, “You’re incredible, you know that?”

            This causes Stan’s giggles to dwindle down until he’s just hiding his grin behind his hand and blinking up at Mike speechlessly, unable to think of a way to respond to that. The compliment feels more intimate than their kissing had, and he feels strangely suffocated by the weight of it, but not in a bad way. Perhaps _suffocated_ isn’t the right word, but it’s a similar, full-body sensation, like those words are warming him the same was a comfortable blanket would, soft and gentle and nice. It takes him a few long, slow moments to get his brain in working order again, and even then it’s another solid thirty seconds before his mouth is capable of catching up, at which point he lowers his hand and very quietly says, “I didn’t know what to write a song about until I decided to write it about you.”

            Mike’s eyes, already soft, seem to get even softer at that, and Stan doesn’t feel worthy to be on the receiving end of a look so genuine, so heart-felt and meaningful. There are millions of people on this planet who deserve this far more than he does.

            But that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to appreciate every moment of it he can.

            “It was a beautiful song,” Mike tells him, and he knows their voices have to be low, but it still feels like their sharing secrets with their whispered words and small smiles.

            “It was a beautiful picture,” Stan counters cheekily, and he can see how bashful the comment makes Mike, his eyes averting down for a moment before returning back to Stan. On the stage, someone is singing something that neither of them can hear, and around them, their friends try to be subtle whilst watching the entire scene, which only proves to be harder and harder as, instead of trying to come up with a response, Mike ducks his head and kisses him for the fourth time – and hopefully not the last time – tonight.

 

 

 

 

            Richie is tired.

            Don’t get him wrong, his evening has been fantastic, but with the fight he had with Eddie and the performance at the Final Show, it feels as if all of his energy has been drained out of him, leaving his body aching and tired, his mind distant and foggy. He was able to hold it together for the brief celebrations after the show ended, which had consisted of them all hugging and praising one another excitedly, but he’s been running on autopilot ever since, movements mechanical, muscle memory taking over and allowing him to get ready for bed despite being so exhausted that he could probably fall asleep standing up.

            It’s because of this exhaustion that he doesn’t notice the tension in the room, doesn’t see the way Eddie keeps looking at him in uncertainty, doesn’t hear the sound of Eddie’s jaw clicking every time he opens his mouth and promptly closes it again. He doesn’t realize any of this is happening until Eddie clears his throat, and suddenly the heaviness is so apparent that he has to sit down on his bed just to keep himself from crumbling under the weight of it.

            “Um,” Eddie starts, and this time Richie does sit down, because he doesn’t think he has the energy left to keep standing whilst they talk. He looks at Eddie warily, not wanting to deal with another argument right now. Thankfully, it seems as if Eddie doesn’t want to either, as he just looks at Richie, looks at the ground, and then looks at Richie again before murmuring, “You, uh- you did really good, at the show. I know you probably don’t care, but I just- I wanted to tell you that.”

            For a long moment, Richie doesn’t reply – he isn’t sure how to. He wasn’t exactly expecting Eddie to compliment him, especially after the fight they had. Despite that, though, he manages to nod his head in acknowledgement and murmur a quiet, “Thanks, I guess.”

            Eddie licks his lower lip nervously and lets out a hum. Richie supposes that he probably doesn’t know what to say, either.

            “I saw your art book,” Richie supplies, if only to fill the silence for a few more seconds. He thinks it’s worth it, seeing the way Eddie looks at him in mild surprise, as if still shocked to find that Richie isn’t an asshole and is actually interested in people’s talents, even if it’s the person he’s not very fond of right now. Offering a tight-lipped smile, he says, “You’re really talented. I’m pretty sure I’ve already told you that, but just because I’m pissed at you doesn’t mean I don’t still think it.”

            Again, Eddie doesn’t respond, not fully. He only releases a quiet little, “Huh,” as he focuses his eyes on his hands, which are clasped together tightly in his lap.

            Unable to help it, Richie smiles and adds, “I especially liked that drawing of me.” His voice is semi-teasing and his words come out with a tired slur, and he considers winking for dramatic effect before deciding that he’s just too sleepy to continue this any more. Without even waiting for a response, he falls back onto his mattress, rolls onto his side, and pulls his duvet up to his chin, eyes already fluttering shut and mind quickly drifting into a peaceful sleep.

            And across the room, eyes wide and lips parted in silent surprise, Eddie finds that he kind of missed Richie’s attempts at being friendly, even though he never cared for them before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sneak peak about next chapter: the only characters in it are beverly, eddie, and richie. beverly is only in it for the very first scene. why, you ask?
> 
> two words: snowed in.
> 
> also: i am going to be posting audio of the song stan sings (i deadass wrote an actual song just to make the lyrics sound more realistic) but right after i post this chapter i have to leave to get dinner with my family so it’s going to have to wait. look out for it on my tumblr, or come back to this chapter tomorrow and this little paragraph should be replaced with a link to the song.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been,,,,a month.  
> uh. my bad.
> 
> OKAY LOOK! I've been so busy recently, it's insane. If you don't already know, I've been working on a Halloween series of Reddie fics calls the 31 Days of Halloween, and that ended up taking all of my time. Literally, I've done nothing else but work on that series. It's a lot, but I'm so proud of it so far.
> 
> I still have a lot of shit to do so unfortunately these updates will probably no longer be weekly, but I promise the will be more frequent than once a month. The wait for this chapter was only so long because I didn't put in time to work on paranoia in between the Halloween one shots. I'm sorryyyy! But hey, hope you like this update!!! She's not as long as I was hoping, but she's still over 10k, which is good. Enjoy!

            Winter break starts like this:

            A majority of students and faculty left last night, after the Final Show had ended, in order to catch earlier flights or get ahead on their long drives. However, a good handful of people stayed – some people like Eddie, who will not be leaving campus for the holidays, and some people like Richie, who decided to stay until Saturday morning before heading out. Or, in Richie’s case, had been specifically instructed by administration to stay on campus until break officially began. Fortunately, that is now.

            Which is why Eddie makes sure he is out of their dorm room before Richie wakes up, not wanting to suffer through a tense morning while Richie gets his things together and heads out to catch the bus. He knows his original plan was to ride with Stan back to Witcham last night, but Richie insisted on Stan not waiting for him, and thus the plan was changed. Eddie doesn’t want to see Richie still in their dorm, because he knows that it’s his fault he was forced to stay one more night.

            Eddie knows a lot of this is his fault. He doesn’t like feeling guilty, but it’s recently become a familiar bitterness on the back of his tongue that he can’t seem to swallow.

            Thankfully, Beverly decided to show him mercy when he texted her about his plan to hang out somewhere on campus until Richie leaves, telling him about a coffee shop just off campus that she’s been going to since she started attending Kenduskeag. It only takes a few quick messages before they set up a time to meet up, and Eddie feels completely and wholeheartedly grateful for Beverly Marsh.

            He shows up ten minutes early, orders himself a hot chocolate, and waits for Beverly to arrive.

            When she does, it’s in a red-faced frenzy.

            “She kissed me goodbye,” Beverly gushes to him, throwing herself into the opposite side of the booth that Eddie’s sitting in. There’s a blush rising from her neck and covering the expanse of her cheeks, reaching the tips of her ears, which quickly becomes the only visible thing about her as she buries her face in her hands and releases an excited squeal.

            Eddie raises his brows, smiling. “Audra did?”

            “No, it was Michelle Obama,” Beverly retorts, but her words are weak, half-hearted and muffled by her palms. Still, her response draws out a snort from Eddie, who hides his grin behind his cup of hot chocolate and shakes his head in amusement.

            “You and Michelle, huh? That’s a power duo if I’ve ever seen one. How’s Barack feel?”

            Beverly lowers her hands to glare at him, but her own grin is bright and obvious. “He’s very supportive of our love, thank you very much,” she quips back breezily.

            With a light hum, Eddie juts his chin out in a handless gesture towards the counter. “Go, get your drink. When you get back I expect to hear all about this goodbye kiss of yours.”

            “Trust me, you will.”

            Eddie watches Beverly walk away with a fond smile. Last night, he had seen the way Beverly and Audra kissed in the audience following the showing of their documentary, and he could tell that there were some feelings there after meeting Audra on Thanksgiving. Not that Beverly had been subtle before that, always blabbing to him about how incredible Audra was. Eddie finds it endearing in a bittersweet kind of way, a little bit jealous about the connection they have but mostly just ecstatic that their attraction to each other is finally going somewhere.

            Well, _finally_ might be a bit much. Beverly and Audra have only known each other for three and a half months. Eddie’s known them for even less. Perhaps this is just a nice pace for things to develop.

            It’s not like he has much experience to base it around, after all.

            “Okay,” Beverly says, drawing Eddie out of his thoughts as she slides back into her seat, a paper coffee cup in hand. She gives him a quick scan that looks far too knowledgeable for his comfort, but he doesn’t get the chance to bring it up as she takes a sip of her drink, quirks an eyebrow, and asks, “What do you want to know?”

            “Hmm.” Eddie ponders this, tilting his head from side to side in consideration, tightening his hold on his cup to let the welcoming warmth of his hot chocolate warm his palms. After a moment, he decides, “All of it, probably, but start with last night. How was it?”

            Her already flushed cheeks, now mostly tinted from the mid-December chill, redden even more at his question, likely at the implication of what all could have happened. Instead of becoming flustered, however, she just leans forward to rest her elbows on the table and gives him a wide, dopey grin. “Amazing,” she gushes, her voice airy and light, her eyes twinkling at adoration. He can’t even find it within himself to try teasing her for this reaction, only smiling fondly as she explains, “We didn’t really do anything, just kissed. Like, a lot. She’s such a good kisser, Eddie, you have no idea.”

            “No, I don’t,” Eddie agrees simply, nodding.

            Beverly rolls her eyes at him, but opts to ignore Eddie’s response entirely as she continues. “We said we were gonna talk about what it all means when break is over. I mean, we kind of talked about it last night, but I don’t think either of us were really paying attention, you know? I know _I_ was pretty distracted, so…”

            Eddie crinkles his nose, lifting his cup to his lips to take a quick sip. "I'm kind of grossed out by that, but I'm also happy for you." Beverly flips him off, making him laugh lightly under his breath, setting his cup down in order to raise his hands in front of him as a sign of surrender. "Fine, fine," he relents. "What do you think is gonna come out of it? The talk, I mean."

            For a moment, Beverly falters, pondering over her answer whilst she absentmindedly toys with the edge of the sleeve on her coffee cup, ends of her lips tugging down in a small frown, brows creased together. Eddie waits patiently, knowing that she needs her time to mull this over properly, and chooses to pass the time by looking around the room in mild interest.

            The café they’re in is cozy and comfortable, deep reds and warm browns and the constant, pleasant aroma of freshly brewed coffee hanging in the air. He may love coffee – practically lived off of it back in Chicago – but he isn’t really in the mood for it at this very moment, which is why he always orders a hot chocolate instead. One of his favorite things that coffee offers, however, is the heavenly smell of it, the very smell hanging in the air right now. He wonders, briefly, if the café will be open over the entirety of winter break or if it will be closed for most of it due to the holidays. It’s not run on campus, so he’s fairly certain him and Beverly will be able to frequent the place over the next two week, but if it ends up being close for some odd reason, he’s sure they can just go to Walmart and buy whatever they’d like instead. Actually, since they’ll be alone for so long on campus, he’s sure they’ll be going to Walmart no matter what, if only to stock up on food and drink that will be sold out once Christmas gets closer.

            “I think we’re on the same page,” Beverly finally answers, drawing Eddie’s attention back to her, his gaze settling on her unsure frown, watching as she stares as her hands and scrapes her teeth over her lower lip nervously. “I mean, I _hope_ we are, ‘cause… I don’t know. I don’t really want to get my hopes up if she ends up saying she doesn’t want anything to come out of this, you know? But I also don’t want to hold myself back and make it look like I’m uninterested if it turns out she _does_ want something to come out of this. Which, like, I _think_ she does, because she seemed just as into the kissing as I was, but I don’t…” she trails off, shaking her head to herself and letting out a little huff of a sigh, eyes moving back up to meet Eddie’s gaze across the table. “What do you think I should do?”

            “Be honest,” he tells her simply. “I think, based on what I’ve seen and what you’re telling me, that both of you are definitely on the same wave length with this. You just have to tell her what you’re telling me, that you want a relationship or something but you won’t be mad if she doesn’t. Like, make it clear that you’ll respect her decision no matter what, but make sure she knows what your feelings are so she can use that knowledge to figure out what that decision it.”

            Slowly, Beverly nods, casting her eyes back down, looking like she’s examining the table top closely, but he can practically see the cogs turning in her head as she processed his words carefully. This time, it doesn’t take nearly as long for her to respond, only a few short moments passing before she releases a slow sigh and murmurs, “Yeah, you’re right.”

            With a joking smirk, he quips, “I’m always right,” and takes a long drink of his hot chocolate proudly. He expects her to laugh, but all she does is cock an eyebrow at him, equal parts challenging, amused, and condescending – a perfect concoction of emotions to make it clear what she’s silently trying to convey. Lowering his cup slowly, he meekly corrects, “Well, _almost.”_

            “Sure,” she tells him sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she slouches back in her seat, giving herself a moment to drink her coffee before carrying on the conversation. When she deems herself ready to keep talking, she lets out a low snicker and softly muses, “You know, you give great advice for something who acts out like you do. Maybe you should listen to yourself and se where it gets you.”

            “Bev,” Eddie sighs, and he isn’t sure if it’s a warning or an admission of guilt, but she doesn’t seem to care either way. Or, if she does, she chooses not to show it.

            “I’m just saying,” she goes on, raising her free hands in front of her in an act of innocence. “When you talk to me about stuff like this, you’re really level-headed and chill, but you snap so easily when it comes to Richie. It’s kind of weird, actually.” Then, leaning forward once again, she asks, “How is that, by the way? Anything new happen yesterday? After the fight, I mean.”

            With a low groan, Eddie lets his head drop to hang between his shoulder in an almost shameful way, bring up a hand to run tiredly at his eyes. “How the hell do you know about the fight? I’m pretty fucking sure I didn’t tell you about that.”

            “No,” she agrees, “but Richie did. I think you keep forgetting that, just because I’m friends with you, that doesn’t mean I’m suddenly not friends with him. I mean, yeah, he got a little upset when I told him I wasn’t gonna stop hanging out with you, but that was when he was still really mad about what happened. Now he doesn’t care much because he knows I’m not picking sides, even though I probably should. I’m here for both of you, no matter what happens between you two.”

            Eddie levels her with a wary look of uncertainty, frowning slightly. “Why haven’t you picked sides, though? Everyone else did.”

            Chuckling, Beverly shakes her head and tells him, “No, they didn’t. You assumed they were going to hate you, so you stopped talking to them. They ask me about you all the time, just to see if you’re okay, how you’re handing all of this. Even Stan got a little worried because you disappeared so quickly, and don’t get me wrong, he’s still pissed beyond belief, but we all care about you. If you’d let it happen, all of us would be here for you right now, not just me. It’s not their fault that you shut them out.”

            “Well, what else am I supposed to do?” Eddie taps his fingers against the smooth surface of the table top absentmindedly, his frown deepening into a confused grimace, brows pinching together. “I mean, even I know that I’m the one in the wrong, so I don’t understand why anything would bother with me when Richie deserves the support in this. Hell, I’m surprised you’ve put up with me these past two weeks after what I did.”

            “See, that’s your problem,” Beverly states, sounding exasperated as she gives him and unimpressed, deadpan kind of look. “You’re so negative, Eddie. And I know that probably isn’t your fault, judging on the little you’ve told me about how you grew up, but, like- you think that, just because you fucked up, we’re all going to stop giving a shit about you and kick you to the curb and never give you the light of day again. News flash, man: we won’t. Sure, what you did was really fucked up, and I’m not going to try and sugarcoat that, but it was an honest to god mistake. You didn’t mean for that to happen, and you’ve been telling me that you’ve want to fix it, right?”

            Eddie waits, expecting her to continue, and blinks slowly when she offers no more. “So?”

            Rolling her eyes, she finishes, “So, fix it.”

            “I’m _trying_ to—”

            Beverly hold up a hand, effectively cutting him off mid-sentence. “No, you’re not,” she says bluntly, showing no reaction when he gapes at the harshness of her words. “You want to, and you’ve tried saying sorry once or twice, but you haven’t really done anything to actually fix it. I mean, look at what happened! You fought yesterday, Eddie. Like, a full on argument, where both of you said shit you shouldn’t have said and made the entire thing even harder, and why?”

            “Because—”

            Again, Beverly cuts him off. “Because you’re stubborn,” she tells him simply. “You grew up in a way that makes you think saying sorry is enough, but it isn’t. You have to do more than just apologize, okay? You have to really show him that you really want to fix it.” She nods to herself once, as if in agreement with her own words. Eddie stares at her, helpless and confused, leading her to explain, “I just mean, like, prove it, you know? Actions speak louder and shit like that. Don’t just tell him, show him. Prove yourself. Make your intentions clear. Don’t let your own stubbornness and temper get in the way.”

            For a long moment, Eddie doesn’t respond, turning her advice over and over in his mind, trying to examine it piece by piece and make sense of what it is she’s telling him to do. “You sound like a cheap therapist,” he muses dryly.

            Beverly shrugs. “Well, maybe if I was a therapist, you’d actually listen to me.”

            “I am listening to you,” he promises. “I just… I don’t know. I never really had to deal with this kind of situation before, you know? I’ve never been in this kind of position. I have literally no clue what I’m doing or how to handle it, and everything you just said sounded like another language to me. I have no fucking clue what to do with all of that.”

            “Well, it’s a good think we have all winter break to figure it out then,” Beverly muses lightly, taking a long sip of her coffee and raising her eyebrows at him, a sight that makes him laugh softly under his breath in mild amusement.

            Smiling, he cocks his head to the side and questions, “We?”

            “We,” she clarifies. “What, did you think I’d spend the next two weeks with you and not even try to help you come up with a plan? What kind of friend would I be if I did that?”

            “A normal one.”

            Waving her hand dismissively in front of her, Beverly says, “Normal friends are boring friends, thank you very much. And besides, there’s no such thing as _normal_ in Kenduskeag Valley, Oregon. This place is overflowing with dramatic and artistic gays. That’s what makes being here so much fun.”

            Eddie snorts at that, slumping down in his seat with shaking shoulders as he brings his cup of hot chocolate to his mouth in an attempt to muffle his endless snickering. Though winter break has barely begun, he already has a feeling that this is going to be the best Christmas he’s had since he was twelve-years-old, the last year he was able to spend the holiday with his father. Sure, his mom’s been throwing a constant, toddler style fit ever since he informed her of his decision to stay on campus rather than traveling back to Chicago, but her being upset with his decisions isn’t really a new thing, so he can’t find it in himself to care that much. Besides, a Christmas with Beverly, who’s been honest and kind and loving to him since he met her on Halloween? That’s sure to be better than whatever would have happened had he chosen to fly home, where his mother would have undoubtedly grilled him about school and tried everything she could to convince him to drop out, likely claiming that it isn’t too late for him to start at the university she had wanted him to go, where he could conveniently live at home and still attend.

            No, no. This is a much better option.

            For the first time in nearly six years, he’s actually excited for the holiday season, and he can’t even begin to explain how happy that makes him feel.

 

 

 

 

            He spends a long time at the café with Beverly.

            It’s not intentional, not really, but they wind up losing themselves in conversation, discussing plans and ideas for plans to fill the following two weeks where they’ll only be able to rely on one another to stay entertained. While staying on campus for Christmas may sound kind of sad to anyone who overhears it, the two of them are determined to make the best of it, turning it into something they’ll cherish for years to come. Starting tomorrow – because Beverly says that she needs to clean her dorm before he practically moves in for two weeks – they’re going to be marathoning Christmas movies, listening to every single Christmas song known to man-kind, and subjecting themselves to various cliché holiday traditions that they’ve been deprived of for one reason or another. For instance, they’ll be decorating gingerbread houses and decorating the fake tree that Beverly bought at Walmart a couple days ago. Eddie can’t wait for the festivities to start, which is exactly why he rushes back to his own down, ready to waste the rest of the day away and sleep through the night so that tomorrow can get here sooner.

            However, when he pushes open the door and goes to step inside, he sees that Richie is still here, lounging on his bed and frowning down at his phone. He was supposed to be gone hours ago. Actually, Eddie was kind of relying on the fact that Richie wouldn’t be here when he got back, so that he could go through the entirely of winter break without any sort of stress or drama.

            Seems as though the universe is against that. Which, fuck the universe, but okay.

            “What are you still doing here?” Eddie asks, the question coming out a little thick, words gurgling in the back of his throat as he eyes Richie warily. He’s frozen in the doorway, and he knows he should step further in and shut the door entirely, but the hall is vacant and he kind of feels frozen to the spot right now, so he doesn’t. “I thought you were leaving. Going home for Christmas.”

            “I am,” Richie mumbles, his voice sounding exhausted and bitter. “Or, I will, but there’s a blizzard rolling in and the busses are shut down until further notice, so I have to wait for my dad to come get me, but he said he might not be able to for a couple days because of how hard it’s supposed to snow.”

            It makes sense. Eddie had seen the heavy clouds above when him and Beverly walked back to campus, and had even seen a few snowflakes gliding down here and there. He had the inkling of a suspicion that it was going to get ugly real fast, but he hadn’t minded that thought. Now, however, it makes a lump form in his throat. “Oh,” he says dumbly, unsure of how else to respond. “Um. Sorry.”

            Letting out a huff of air that sounds kind of like a half-assed laugh, Richie uninterestedly murmurs, “Not your fault. It’s whatever. Just means I’m stuck here for a little bit longer than I wanted.”

            For a moment, Eddie considers pointing out that Richie would be back in Witcham last night is he had been allowed to leave with Stan last night, and that it’s technically Eddie’s fault that he’s still here now, but he opts not to, knowing that the only thing that would accomplish is just frustrating Richie even further. Instead, he just sinks his teeth into his lower lip and averts his gaze as he finally shuffles into the room completely, softly shutting the door behind him. He can’t help but feel stiff and tense right now, practically leaping over to his own bed and whipping his phone out of his back pocket to send a text to Beverly, unsure of what else to do or how to handle this.

            All Beverly replies with is: _our plans are postponed until Richie leaves. Now’s your chance to make amends, Baby K. as stated in Hamilton, do not throw away ur shot. Lemme know how it goes._

            Eddie considers arguing with her, but opts to instead point out how cliché it is to quote a musical while being a lesbian attending an art school. She sends a middle finger emoji and promptly ignores the rest of his texts, giving him no other choice but to set his phone aside and really weigh his options here. Bev does have a point – after the talk they had earlier about Richie, he knows he needs to take every available opportunity to try and prove how sorry he is for what happened. This is definitely one of those moments he should use to his advantage. If he wants to get anywhere, he can’t keep backing out. Even if Richie never forgives him, he wants it to be clear that he really does regret what he did. No matter how much Richie gets on his nerves, he doesn’t deserve what Eddie caused, accidental or not.

            _I’m sorry,_ Eddie thinks, but that isn’t sufficient enough, right? Beverly said he has to show he means it, not just say it. Back home, his mother blamed everything on everyone and anyone else rather than him, giving him no opportunity to understand the right way to handle these things. His father taught him as much as he could with Sonia’s influence, but the past six years have effectively shadowed over what he once knew. He had been a lot nicer and way more patient before his dad died, that’s for sure.

            _I want to make it up to you,_ he thinks, but he feels like he shouldn’t say that until he knows how, exactly, he plans on making it up to Richie. That’s something he was hoping to discuss with Beverly in order to figure out, as she definitely knows Richie better than he does and will be able to offer some insight that he simply does not have. However, she’s not answering his texts, and it’s not like he can call her while sitting in the same room as Richie. That doesn’t stop him from sending another text begging Beverly to help him. She reads it, but doesn’t respond.

            _Please tell me how to fix this,_ he considers, and almost blurts it out when he glances over and sees Richie’s features all scrunched up with frustration and a hint of sadness. The words are swallowed back, however, because that’s just too desperate, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to beg for forgiveness, he just wants it to be known that he’s sorry – he wants Richie to really understand that he wouldn’t intentionally do what he did. He wouldn’t intentionally try to get him kicked out of his school, no matter how much of a pain in the ass Richie is to him.

            In the end, he says nothing, opting to send a final text to Beverly claiming that she’s being unfair by not helping him right now and pulling out a sketch book to waste away the rest of the afternoon. Richie doesn’t try to talk to him either, only sitting on his phone and occasionally going out into the hallway to answer a call. At one point, Eddie looks out the window and sees that the blizzard Richie mentioned is definitely overhead, if the flurry of white slow flakes is anything indication. As soon as the sky starts to dim, he lays down in his bed and pretends to sleep, trying to ignore the say the silence feels heavy and itchy on his skin. He supposes he should just be grateful they aren’t screaming at each other.

 

 

 

 

            Unfortunately, that doesn’t last long, which is, surprisingly, not Eddie’s fault. Or maybe it is, since he’s the reason Richie is so snappy and upset, but still. Richie is the one to make the first comment, while Eddie has been trying to keep the quiet peace. He thinks that counts for something, right?

            He isn’t really sure how things escalated, to be honest. Well, he knows _how,_ but he really doesn’t understand _why._ Why Richie decided to spark up a conversation, or why he made it into a fight. All Eddie really knows for sure is that he’s fucking livid.

            It starts right around noon, when Eddie is, once again, texting Beverly and begging for any sort of advice on how to handle this. Thankfully, she’s actually replying to him, offering small things that aren’t doing much to help him. He’s so enraptured in their texts that he doesn’t notice when Richie sizes him with a curious stare, not until Richie clears his throat and asks, “Why haven’t you left yet?”

            Stunned by the sudden question, Eddie blinks once, tears his eyes away from his phone screen, and blinks again. “Why haven’t I… what?”

            “Gone home,” Richie clarifies, and he almost sounds as carefree and kind as he had before Eddie fucked up, but Eddie can still see the iciness in his eyes. He gestures to the window, where the snow has only piled higher since last night. “For Christmas. Holidays with the family and all that shit.”

            “I’m not going back to Chicago,” Eddie deadpans, seeing no reason to beat around the bush. He looks back when his phone buzzes, but opts to wait until after this conversation to respond to Beverly. “I wasn’t kidding when I said that place isn’t my home.”

            Richie looks confused by this, nose crinkling and brows furrowed. “So… what? Kenduskeag is your home now? What about your family?”

            Eddie tries very, very hard not to get defensive about this, but due to it being a touchy subject, he can’t help the clipped tone in his voice when he states, “I don’t have family.”

            “Huh.” Richie falters at that, and Eddie can practically see the cogs turning in his head as he ponders over Eddie’s response. Just as Eddie is considering using this as an opportunity to once again apologize for what happened, Richie speaks up to muse, “I guess I wasn’t that far off when I said your family doesn’t want you around ‘cause you treat them like shit. Was I on the nose with that one? It was just a guess, honestly, so I didn’t think—”

            “You make it really hard to not be pissed off at you,” Eddie interrupts curtly, his eyes narrowing, and he can feel as some of his guilt starts to burn into frustration at the amused look in Richie’s eyes. Like, he gets it, sure – he understands that Richie is still furious about what happened, knows that there’s months of Eddie treating him like shit prior to this, and he probably thinks it’s only fair or is too angry to really be able to control what he’s saying – but that doesn’t make hearing what Richie’s saying any easier. Again, he’s selfishly stubborn, and he won’t just sit here and let Richie talk about him like that.

            _Especially_ when Richie has absolutely no fucking idea what it is he’s talking about.

            And yes, he realizes how hypocritical that is of him, but he’s still mad, so whatever.

            “Oh, _you’re_ pissed at _me?”_ Richie laughs, loud and condescending, and there’s a shift in the air, the tension turning into something thicker, harder to breathe. “Now that’s just _rich._ Please, tell me what you think you have the right to be pissed at me for? Last I checked, I’ve done literally nothing to you!”

            “You don’t have to be an ass to me just because I made you mad,” Eddie points out, trying to keep his tone level. He can hear Beverly’s voice in his ear, telling him to not let his own stubbornness get in the way of fixing this. So, despite the fact that he would _love_ to shout about how annoying Richie is being right now, he takes a deep breath and calmly states, “I know I fucked up, and I’m trying to figure out the right way to make it up to you, but you being a dick won’t make anything better.”

            Scoffing, Richie rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Funny, ‘cause none of this would have happened if you had just treated me like a normal human being, and now _you’re_ telling _me_ to not be a dick? You should look at how you’ve been acting the past three months before getting pissy at me.”

            “And you should grow the fuck up and figure out that treating me like shit is only gonna make the situation worse,” Eddie retorts, monotone and blunt. Richie blanches at that, giving Eddie a chance to let out a slow sigh and scrub a hand over his features. “Look,” he says, softer and much more gentle than any other time he’s spoken to Richie prior to now. “I… I know I fucked up, okay? And I’ve been talking to Beverly and she pointed out that I grew up in a way where all I had to do was say sorry and everything would be fine after that, but that’s not enough here. I’m way out of my element right now and I have no clue how to fix this, but… I _am_ sorry. I’m really, _really_ sorry.”

            For a long, heavy moment, Richie doesn’t respond, his gaze scanning over Eddie’s face in a scrutinizing way, examining his features closely. He looks like he wants to argue more, and Eddie gets that because he kind of wants to argue some more, too, but then Richie just sits heavily on the edge of his bed and lets out a slow, resigned breath. Everything about his demeanor just screams exhausted in a way that makes the guilt bubble back up in Eddie’s chest.

            God, he hates this. He hates this so fucking much.

            “I just…” Richie trails off, and even his voice is weak and sad. “I really wanted to be friends with you, you know? Because, like… when we met, you seemed cool and I was so excited to have a cool roommate, but then you kept treating me like shit, over and over and over again, and I still don’t even know _why._ And then you almost got my scholarship taken away, and I can’t afford this place, so I would have had to leave Kenduskeag, and I… I’m so fucking tired of this. I’ve _been_ tired of this, Eddie. I tried so fucking hard to try and get you to like me, or even just treat me decently, and you just… fuck. I don’t know. I’m so mad at you for that but I… I fucking _hate_ being mad. It makes me feel so _gross.”_

            “Being mad makes you feel gross?” Eddie asks, confused. He clears his throat when Richie cocks an eyebrow at him, shoving his curiosity to the side with reluctance and murmuring, “Right, yeah, not the point, sorry.” Raising a hand, he rubs the back of his neck meekly and lowers himself until he’s also sitting on the edge of his own bed, mirroring Richie from across the room. Pondering how to reply for a moment, he decides that the best approach is to explain, “The reason why I… why I’ve been so mean to you is because of what you said that first day. You, uh- you told me you’re only here because of Stan and the scholarship, and not because you want to be here, and… and you were right, I did jump to conclusions and I shouldn’t have, but I don’t have a family that’s worth giving up my dream school for, you know? I worked my ass off to get accepted here, and to hear you say you didn’t even want to attend…” Eddie shakes his head, frowning down at his hands, and quietly finishes, “I was unreasonable and harsh and I know that, but it made me so fucking pissed to think that you were here when you didn’t care after it took me over a year to put together a portfolio and have the courage to even apply and I just… I took that anger out on you.” Glancing up, he sees that Richie is watching him closely, his eyes considerate and contemplative. He looks back down at his hands, brows drawing together. “But, I mean… what Stan told me on Thanksgiving, and what I saw at the Final Show… I know you _do_ care, and I know there’s more to the story than what I assumed, and I’m sorry for that, too. For, uh… treating you like that.”

            Richie takes a few minutes to turn over Eddie’s words in his head, his unfocused eyes gazing over at the wall. Eddie shifts in his seat uncomfortably, wanting to say something if only just to fill the silence, but he waits instead, tapping his fingers against the curves of his knees and gnawing on his lower lip nervously. What he just told Richie is probably the most honest, vulnerable thing he’s said since arriving to Kenduskeag – even more so than the small things he’s admitted to Beverly, in a way, because there are no walls up right now. He’s so desperate to fix the damage he caused that he’d gladly admit his entire life story if it means that Richie can understand why he is the way he is. Bev knows some of it, little details that he’s mentioned here and there, but he’s purposely kept a majority of that stuff kept hidden away in his chest. Right now, if Richie were to ask, he’d say it all.

            Which is… kind of terrifying, but kind of relieving, in a very strange, different, suffocating kind of way. He’s never been this willing to be open about himself before.

            “I don’t know if I can forgive you for what you did,” Richie speaks up, his brows pinched together and his features strained, as if admitting that makes him feel guilty. “But I… I’ve never been one to hold grudges, so I can definitely get over it and move on. But only if you’ll actually be nice to me.” At that, he shifts his gaze over to stare at Eddie hopefully, quietly adding, “You don’t have to be my friend or anything, but I can’t take it if you keep acting like I’m the worst person alive. Please?”

            For Eddie, being nice is both the easiest and the hardest thing in the world. Easy, because he’s got a kind heart – hard, because he has years and years’ worth of defensive behavior and abusive parenting built up around said heart, making it difficult to let that kindness shine through. After all the shit he caused, however, plus the fact that Richie feels it’s necessary to literally _plead_ for his kindness, he doesn’t hesitate to nod and hastily promise, “I’ll be the nicest person this world has ever seen if I have to.”

            Thankfully, this seems to be enough to ease Richie’s tension, as he lets out a quiet little snort at this, his gaze softening and his shoulders slumping even further. He flops back against his bed, body bouncing slightly against the mattress, and releases a long winded sigh, ending with a very soft, “Thank god. I was starting to consider just staying in Witcham after winter break just ‘cause I didn’t know if I could deal with any more of this dumb fighting. Arguments are so _exhausting,_ I don’t know how there are people who fight all the time and think it’s normal.”

            “There are people who think fighting is normal?” Eddie asks, his nose crinkling in confusion. In his mind, he’s always known that frequent fights are a bad sign, a sentiment that was passed down to him by his father, who hated arguing almost as much as he hated the way Sonia wanted to parent Eddie.

            “Unfortunately,” Richie shrugs.

            Eddie hums, leaning back against his hands and letting himself relax. It already feels strange, being at ease around Richie rather than frustrated or guilty, but he thinks it’s a welcome change that he hopes he can get used to. “Sounds like you’re talking from experience, there,” he muses.

            Lulling his head to the side to look at Eddie, Richie purses his lips thoughtfully and then decidedly replies, “Maybe I am. That information is unlocked at friendship level five. Stan is a level seven. I don’t even know if you want to be friends or if you just want to be civil, so you’re currently a level zero, maybe a zero point five. You’ll have to work for some level ups if you ever want to find out.”

            Releasing a light laugh that’s equal parts amused and bewildered, Eddie questions, “Do you actually rank your friends by levels, or are you bullshitting me?”

            “Gotta reach level one to find that out.” Richie’s gaze is practically dancing by now, clearly egging Eddie on to answer the question he has yet to even ask. Feeling somewhat reluctant, Eddie falters.

            “How, uh…”

            God, this is stupid. Richie’s not pissed anymore. Leave it at that, right? Don’t go digging further. They’re too different to really be friends anyway. Except… Eddie gets along with Bill and Mike and Ben and everyone who seems to consider Richie a good friend. So, maybe…

            But maybe not…

            Oh, fucking- _whatever._ Fuck it. His dad would have wanted him to do this, so he fucking will.

            “How would one go about reaching level one?” Eddie asks, and the words are a little rushed, a little embarrassed and timid, but Richie lights up light a fucking Christmas tree, so he doesn’t try to take them back. He just sits, waits, and hopes that this isn’t a mistake.

            It doesn’t feel like a mistake when Richie looks like an overexcited puppy, sitting up in his bed once again and shaking his head in disbelief. “You actually want to be my friend? Like _, me?_ Richie Tozier? You want to be Richie Tozier’s friend? Are you serious? Don’t fuck with me about this, ‘cause I’ve been trying to be friends with you since September, and if you tell me you’re joking I might actually start crying, so you better fucking be serious right now.”

            Snickering lightly, Eddie nods once. “Not joking. It’s worth a shot, I think. Just…” he trails off, considers his next words, then decides on, “Be patient with me. I’m still new to this whole having friends thing, and I’m still used to being pissed at you. It might take some time to adjust to.”

            “Yeah, of course,” Richie agrees instantly, his grin so wide it looks painful. “So, friends?”

            “Friends,” Eddie repeats, and he doesn’t grin like Richie does, but he smiles wide and relieved. And when he texts Beverly again to inform her of these developments, she sends back so many exclamation marks that it hurts his eyes to look at.

 

 

 

 

            On the third day, it stops snowing.

            There’s a good foot of snow on the ground, and the clouds are still dark and stormy, but for the time being, no more snow is piled on to what’s already there. Richie wakes up to a text from his dad saying he should be able to drive out to Kenduskeag and pick him up today once the roads are cleared, and he almost tears up when he reads it. Not being home the past few days had been killing him, especially after not being able to go to back to Witcham for the last two weeks of the quarter as well. Stan had even offered to drive through the blizzard just to get him because he knows how much he’s hated being stuck here, but he told him it wasn’t worth the risk. And now, he’s less than twenty-four hours away of finally going home.

            Only now it’s a little different here, because the dorm isn’t as heavy as it has been since that very first day. It’s definitely weird, the two of them silently trying to figure out the right way to approach this newfound friendship, but it’s nice, too. When he offers Eddie a smile, he gets one in return. Small stuff like that. He kind of feels guilty about leaving Eddie here to spend the rest of winter break alone.

            But he doesn’t bring that up, at least not yet, because he isn’t sure the right way to voice his worries without coming across as presumptuous or something like that. Instead, he spends the first hour of his day making sure he has everything he needs packed up and ready to go for whenever he dad gets here. And, as soon as that’s done, he gets bored. Very, very bored.

            “How’d you get into art?” he asks Eddie suddenly, mostly to fill the silence, but also because he’s never had the chance to learn these kinds of things before. Things that he likes to know about his friends.

            Eddie blinks, looking up from the sketch book he’d been absentmindedly doodling in, and pauses a moment to consider his answer. “My dad,” he ends up saying, brows twitching together slightly, gaze a little bit unfocused. “My mom thought that coloring books and art in general was a waste of time, so my dad got me a bunch of coloring pencils and shit like that so that I could draw. He always said that being creative is important and to never let anyone stop me from expressing my creativity, so I didn’t.”

            That answer settles warmly in Richie’s chest, making him smile. “Your dad sounds cool.”

            “Yeah, he was the best,” Eddie agrees softly, his lips twitching up into a sad kind of smile. The meaning behind those words dawn on Richie quickly, but before he can apologize or offer any kind of response, Eddie lowers his gaze back to his sketch book and asks, “What about you? How’d you end up being a dancer?”

            Richie considers backtracking, but decides that if Eddie wanted to talk about it, he wouldn’t have moved on so quickly. That doesn’t make him feel any better, though. Still, he lets out a long breath, and answers, “I just… always danced, I guess. Like, there are videos of me and Stan when we were toddlers, and he’s singing along to the music while I dance to it. I never wanted to do anything else.”

            “You’ve really been friends with Stan for that long?” Eddie looks impressed, his brows rising.

            “We have, yeah,” Richie nods, unable to hold back his wide, toothy smile. “My parents were so busy with work and stuff that I started going to daycare before I was even a month old, and his parents were the same. We’ve literally known each other since we were a few weeks old, and we’ve been inseparable for as long as I can remember.”

            Eddie doesn’t respond for a few seconds, hand freezing with the pencil poised over the page, eyes slightly unfocused. “That must be nice,” he murmurs eventually. After another short moment of hesitation, he blinks his gaze back into focus and clears his throat. “Dancing, I mean. I’ve always thought that dancing looks like fun, but I’ve never tried because I know I’d be shit at it.”

            “That’s bullshit,” Richie scoffs, already rolling off his bed to get to his feet. He kind of wants to ask more about Eddie’s past, but he knows that he doesn’t want Eddie probing into his business when they’re still just barely getting along, so he opts to leave it alone. Sticking a hand out in Eddie’s direction, Richie says, “Come on, get up. We’re dancing.”

            “No, we’re not,” Eddie states, though his lips quirk up into a small, amused smile as he glances between Richie’s face and his extended hand. “I have no coordination, Tozier. I’ll break something.”

            Shrugging, Richie points out, “I have no balance on any given day, but I can still dance. You just have to try it and you’ll see. Even the clumsiest asshole in the entire world—” he gestures to himself with his other hand, “—can dance like a pro. Give it a shot, Kaspbrak. I’ll even keep it simple for you.”

            Nose scrunching up, Eddie glances around the room, looking for a valid excuse out of this situation. Meekly, he argues, “There’s nothing to dance to.”

            With a dramatic eye roll, Richie turns his hand over to hold up a single finger in a _wait a moment_ signal, his free hand digging into his pocket to pull out his phone. Tapping away at the screen, he slowly responds, “I’m pulling up a song right now, so stop finding excuses and get your ass up.”

            “But I—” Eddie splutters when Richie, done with waiting, wraps his fingers around Eddie’s wrist and promptly yanks him to his feet, in the same moment he tosses his phone onto his bed and the beginning of a song begins to echo through the room. Giving in, Eddie huffs out a loud breath and carefully sets his sketch book and his pencil down, facing Richie with a halfhearted glare. “Fine,” he grumbles, eyes narrow. “What are we even—?”

            “Simple dancing,” Richie interrupts, using his grip on Eddie to tug him closer, until they’re chest to chest. Richie grins at him, wide and cheesy, and explains, “The most practical kind of dancing, for weddings and family events and shit like that. Like… slow dancing, sort of, but the kind of slow dancing that people do with their aunts and moms and younger cousins. Like this.” Without warning, he settles his hands on the upper part of Eddie’s waist, coaxing Eddie into swaying with him.

            Unsure of what else to do, Eddie lets Richie take the lead, carefully placing his hands on Richie’s shoulders and glancing down to make sure he doesn’t accidentally step on Richie’s toes. “This is stupid,” he states after a moment, looking back up at Richie, cocking his head to the side. “And is this One Direction? Because this sounds like One Direction.”

            Suddenly taking Eddie by the hand, Richie spins him out and sings, _“Or else we’ll play, play, play all the same old games, and we wait, wait, wait for the end to change, and we take, take, take it for granted, that will be the same.”_ Pulling Eddie back towards him, Richie once again holds onto his waist and finishes the chorus with a quiet, _“But we’re making all the same mistakes.”_

            “This is totally One Direction,” Eddie says with a light snicker. “We’re slow dancing to One Direction right now. Are you fucking kidding me, Tozier?”

            Frowning, Richie sticks his lower lip out in a slight pout that looks a little bit too genuine while squeezing Eddie’s waist once in disapproval. “I’ll have you know that this song means a lot to me, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make fun of it, thanks.”

            Eddie parts his lips to retort something, but he sees the serious glimmer in Richie’s eyes and swallows back the snarky comment. Curious, he instead asks, “What does the song mean to you?”

            Richie doesn’t reply for a moment, casting his gaze to the side and continuing to lead their dance, though it’s now become more swaying in place than anything else. Humming lightly, his eyes flicker back to Eddie, and he smugly answers, “That’s level five knowledge, unfortunately. Can’t tell ya yet.”

            “Oh, fuck off,” Eddie scoffs, but he laughs a little bit, too, and he thinks that he likes this a lot better, this being friends thing. He likes being able to laugh at what Richie says, and letting himself enjoy their time together rather than trying to avoid being in the same room.

            “Don’t worry, you’re already nearing level one,” Richie assures jokingly, but he looks like he means it, too, which is oddly comforting. Eddie doesn’t try to respond, only nods and turns his head to look back down at their feet as they go from swaying to actually dancing. As they do this, Eddie can’t help but listen intently to the lyrics of the song, brows pinching together thoughtfully.

 

                        _Wake up_

_We both need to wake up_

_Maybe if we face up to this_

_We can make it through this_

_Closer_

_Maybe we’ll be closer_

_Stronger than we were before, yeah_

_Made this something more, yeah_

 

            He can’t help but wonder what it is about this song that makes it meaningful to Richie. Sure, it’s clearly an emotional kind of song, but the way Richie had spoken made it sound more personal, like there’s a very specific reason that this song is important to him. He also wonders why, out of every other song he could have played for this moment, he chose to play this one.

            He wonders if that, in itself, means something or not.

            Again, Richie spins Eddie out and under his arm in a graceful kind of way, the motion so fluid that Eddie doesn’t realize it’s happening until he’s already back in his previous position, hands on Richie’s shoulders and Richie’s on his waist. Blinking slowly, he looks up and finds that Richie is already grinning at him once more, toothy and wide and excited. “See? And you said you’d be shit at dancing.”

            “I’m just following your lead,” Eddie argues simply, shrugging. “I still can’t do what you do. Like, the shit you did at the Final Show? I can’t do that. That takes, like, _extreme_ talent.”

            “Yeah, well, you’re already a natural,” Richie says, though his face reddens slightly from Eddie’s compliment. “If you put your mind to it, I bet you’d be better than me in no time.”

            Snorting, Eddie shakes his head, sporting his own crinkly-eyed grin. “Doubtful.”

            With another spin, Richie tsk’s. “Have some faith in yourself,” he chides gently, lowering his brows into an almost stern kind of look. “I get it, you’re not, like, a _dancer,_ but you could be, if you really wanted to. I bet you could do literally anything if you wanted. You seem like a multi-talented kind of guy to me. Just gotta believe in yourself some more.”

            Eddie falters at that, unsure of how to respond. In the short silence that follows, the song rings loud and proud around the room.

 

                        _Yeah, yeah, that’s what crazy is_

_When it’s broken, you see_

_There’s nothing to fix_

_And you pray, pray, pray_

_That everything will be okay_

_While you’re making all the same mistakes_

 

            It seems as though Richie is also listening intently to the music, as his gaze is no longer focused, his features distant. The two of them stop moving entirely, and Eddie watches, almost a little concerned, as Richie stares blankly at the wall and mouths along to the lyrics.

 

                        _Don’t look back_

_But if we don’t look back_

_We’re only learning then_

_How to make those same mis-_

_Same mistakes again_

 

            Eddie wants to ask, wants to demand to know what this song means, because Richie looks like a completely different person like this – different to the person he is when he’s smiley, when he’s angry, when he’s quiet. He looks like a vacant shell in this moment, all the life drained out of him and leaving this frozen body in its place. Just as he’s beginning to consider calling for an ambulance (or, more likely, taking Richie’s phone and calling Stan to see what the fuck is going on and how to fuck to handle it), the song cuts off, a shrill ringing replacing it. Richie blinks, coming back to himself so suddenly that Eddie almost gets whiplash watching the way his features shift, and then he’s standing in the center of the room alone as Richie crosses to his bed and answers his phone.

            “Hey,” he says, chewing on his thumbnail. He stills looks odd, hunching in on himself and avoiding looking in Eddie’s general direction, but it’s better than the practical statue that he had been mere moments before. Unsure of what else to do, Eddie backs up slightly and lowers himself to sit on the edge of his bed, and he’s starting to think that part of being Richie’s friend is being worried all the time. After all, Stan always seems concerned, especially after he had gotten that phone call from Richie on Thanksgiving and had to speed off like that. He doesn’t know what that means, or if he’s actually capable of handling what that will entail. Like, maybe…

            Maybe being friends with Richie will be more difficult than what it’s worth.

            “You’re here?” Richie’s voice sounds a little shaky and kind of lifeless, but Eddie watches as he perks up excitedly, and he thinks that the past day of being Richie’s friend has been much more pleasant than the previous three and a half months. There’s obviously a lot he doesn’t know, but he’s certain that, as annoying and as loud as Richie may be capable of being, it’s clear that he’s fun to be around. And he puts his entire heart into his relationships with people, if the way he suddenly grins is any indication. “Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute to grab my bags and put my shoes on. I’ll be right out. Thanks, Dad. I’ll hurry, I promise. Love you, too.”

            When Richie hangs up, he looks good as new, his eyes no longer vacant and his grin so bright that it’s almost blinding to look at. Eddie is lost, trying to understand what just happened, but he doesn’t bring it up, only offering a tight lipped smile and asking, “You finally heading home, I’m guessing?”

            Richie lowers his phone from his ear, his features showing how ecstatic he is. “Yep! My dad just pulled into the parking lot. All that’s left is an hour and a half long drive through the snow, and then it’s home sweet home for the rest of winter break.” It’s clear in the way he says this that he’s relieved to be heading home, and it becomes even more evident when he quickly rushes to pull on a pair of shoes, but then he hesitates, hands hovering over the strap to his bag, and looks back at Eddie contemplatively.

            “What?” Eddie asks, confused.

            “Do you want to come to Witcham with me?”

            A moment, a slow blink, before Eddie processes that question. “I’m sorry, uh- _what?”_

            Lifting his shoulders in a meek kind of shrug, Richie elaborates, “Well, I just- you said you’re staying on campus, right? And, like, I don’t really know any details yet, but you shouldn’t spend Christmas alone, so I thought- I dunno, maybe that’s a little bit too much after literally just becoming friends, but if you want, you can totally just join Stan and I back in Witcham. I have room in my house, and if that’s not cool, I have the money to get you a hotel room or something, so—”

            “I’m spending Christmas here with Beverly,” Eddie cuts in, feeling as though Richie could ramble on for at least another hour if he weren’t interrupted. Richie snaps his mouth shut, brows drawn together, and Eddie offers him a grateful smile. “That’s really nice of you to ask, though. If I didn’t already make plans with Bev, I might actually agree to go, but… I’m fine, honestly. We’re gonna be spending all of winter break together, being family-less and shit like that. But, uh- thank you, Richie.”

            “You guys have a family,” Richie states, thankfully not at all offended by Eddie denying the offer. “We’re a brand new little family, and we’re a little fucked up in a lot of ways, but Bev says we’re the losers of Kenduskeag, and that means we’re a family.”

            Eddie grins at that, chest feeling a little warm and fuzzy. “I stand corrected,” he muses.

            “You’re damn right you do.” Richie returns the grin, genuine and kind, before taking his overflowing duffle bag in hand and swinging it onto his shoulder. Nodding towards Eddie once, briefly, he says, “Merry Christmas, Eds. I’ll see you after break.”

            “Merry Christmas, Richie,” Eddie replies, voice softer than intended, and that warm feeling doesn’t go away after Richie leaves, rather growing bigger, all-consuming and comfortable. We’re a family, he thinks – definitely a rough one, because Eddie hasn’t spoken to anyone other than Beverly and Richie since Thanksgiving, but if Richie is willing to consider him a part of their group, and if Beverly meant what she said about them still wanting him around, then…

            Then maybe he can let himself be a part of these losers after all. Maybe, after mending what he broke, fixing his mistakes and proving to the others that he wants to his time with them, he can finally have a real family again, for the first time since his father died.

            For now, he chooses not to ponder over the maybes, the possibilities and the worries. Realistically, he knows that it’s going to be difficult, mostly in terms of landing on Stan’s good side after the shit he did to Richie, but he thinks he’s going to takes Richie’s advice and have a little faith in himself. He believes that he can fix everything, that he can make it up to Stan and make everything okay. He believes that he’s capable of anything he puts his mind to. He believes that he’s going to be really, really happy with this family of losers.

            Mostly, he believes this Christmas is going to be fucking amazing. Which is why, after sending Beverly a text to let her know that Richie has officially left Kenduskeag and putting together a small bag of things (anything else he needs, he can just come back to his dorm to grab, so he doesn’t dwell on what he packs up), he slips on a pair of shoes and makes his way out into the hall. It’s here, however, that he finds a simple sketch book sitting on the floor – one much similar to his own, only brand new, looking like it has yet to be used. Confused, he picks it up and flips it open, discovering a few simple words scrawled onto the front page.

            I bought this as a gift for you a month ago and almost threw it away because I was so mad at you, but now I’m glad I didn’t. Merry Christmas, Eddie.

            Embarrassingly enough, Eddie damn near tears up as he reads over the little message. It’s basic and short and not very meaningful, but after the past few weeks, it makes his chest ache in a way that’s both pleasant and painful. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he opens up his contact book and scrolls down to the P section, thumb hovering over the specific name he had saved Richie’s number under back in September. After a moment of hesitation, he edits Richie’s contact slightly, then pulls up his messages. Snapping a quick picture of the writing in the book, he types out a short text and presses send. Almost instantly, he gets a response, and as he walks over the Beverly’s room, he can’t even try to suppress his grin.

 

**To: annoying dancer (:**

_[PictureOfNote.jpeg]_

_Thank you_

 

            **From: annoying dancer (:**

_< 3_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> month and a half since the last update, did you say? huh, that's... hm. well. oops. my bad.
> 
> hope ya like this late ass chapter!!

             Up until the moment she steps into her dorm room for the first time in two weeks, Audra feels _great_. As in, walking on cloud nine, a beaming grin on her face, head over heels fan-fucking-tastic. It had been obvious to her parents, who pestered her about her good mood all winter break until she succumbed and told them a half truth, saying that her and her roommate had successfully managed to make a substantial impact on how she had been treated the past year at Kenduskeag. She was very careful to not mention the fact that she had spent all night attached by the lips with said roommate, but had she mentioned that, she thinks her parents would have been more mortified about such a crude detail than actually happy for her. Which is fine, because she’s happy for herself, and that’s more than enough.

            And it helps a lot when she returns to Kenduskeag, a little pep in her step and a light in her eyes that she remembers having before the rumors began, and a handful of people stop her along the way to apologize for ever believing in the things the heard, or for turning a cold shoulder on her, or for just not telling other people who continued to spread the rumor to fuck off and be quiet. She thinks she almost cries when Patty, a fellow junior who is easily the best graphic designer in the entire school, gives her a hug and murmurs a small sentiment about being proud of Audra for doing something so grand. Patty even winks at her when she mentions Beverly’s part in making the documentary, and that makes Audra all the more ecstatic, nearly sprinting the rest of the way to her dorm room, dying to see the beautiful redhead that’s been on her mind since the second she stepped off campus.

            Only, when she bursts through the door, carelessly tossing her bag to the floor, Beverly is not in there, though there’s plenty of evidence of her being here not too long ago. Audra can’t help but feel disappointed by the emptiness of the dorm, a heavy exhale leaving her lips in a gust of air, shoulders sagging as she deflates. She knows Beverly spent winter break on campus – they didn’t text much, probably because of the heavy thought of what’s to come after break ended weighing down their shoulders, but Beverly had sent her a selfie of her and Eddie watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas and shoveling Christmas candy into their mouths. Audra may have saved the picture and almost made it her background because of the way Beverly’s eyes sparkled and her lips stretched back in a wide grin. The trouble of explaining the reason for making it her background if her parents were to ask is what stopped her from doing it. Still, even now, the urge is very, very tempting and hard to resist. Maybe later, after all of… everything is settled – hopefully in a good way – maybe then, she’ll take a picture of Beverly (or ask Mike to send one that he took over the first quarter) and make that her background.

            She tries not to think too hard about all of that, however, as she scoops her bag up and makes her way to her bedroom to unpack that items within it. There’s no point in dwelling on something as simple as making a photo of Beverly her background when she’s still not sure what’s going to come out of the talk they promised to have before Audra left. Like… she’s pretty sure they both are on the same page, feeling the same thing and wanting the same outcome, but there’s still that doubt sitting heavy and hot on the center of her chest, pressing against her ribcage and making her lungs fill with lead.

            So, she starts overthinking it instead. Which is… not good. At all.

            Realistically, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Even if it turns out Audra is the only want with the hopes of something more, they’ll be fine. It might kind of sting a little bit, but Audra is an optimist and she’s more than happy to accept that the whole kissing ordeal had been more of a spur of the moment, act of adrenaline kind of thing, rather than something intentional and meaningful. Because becoming friends with Beverly since September has easily been the best thing to ever happen to her, even more than getting accepted into this school in the first place (though she does recognize that, without Kenduskeag, they never would have met, which makes her very grateful for this place, in a way much deeper than her gratitude had run before). Because of Beverly, Audra has not only completely changed the way that she was being treated, but she was encouraged and supported through confronting the rumors that have been tearing her apart for a year now, something that Audra likely wouldn’t have had the courage to do alone.

            Beverly is… Beverly is _brave_ , Audra has come to learn. She is beyond brave, in a way Audra has always aspired to be. She isn’t afraid to tell people to fuck off and she sticks up for herself because she’s learned how to make herself her number one priority. And Audra hasn’t learned the story as to how, but she has a good hint, if Beverly staying on campus over winter break and living in Kenduskeag rather than going home to her family, who she has not once mentioned since Audra met her, is any indication. It makes her sad to think about, the idea that maybe Beverly does not have a family to go home to, or even a family not worth going home to, but Audra thinks that Beverly isn’t too bothered about it. She seems happy to have made her own family with her friends. God, Audra admires her so much, respects her endlessly for that, for being that tough. Beverly and badass both start with a B, and Audra is pretty sure that’s not a coincidence, because there is no one as badass as Beverly Marsh.

            And Audra is not badass, she doesn’t think. She is sensitive and gentle and fragile. A simple rumor broke her down and almost made her drop out of her dream school out of sheer mortification and a bruised ego. The idea of people thinking lowly of her was so earth shattering that she nearly gave up her entire future just to escape the heaviness in her chest when she walked down the halls. What is someone like that called? Because Audra knows people like her don’t usually match up with people like Beverly.

            But Beverly had kissed her, so urgent and sudden and sweet, while the entire school applauded the movie they made and cheered them on. Audra can’t help but the pause her unpacking just to grin to herself, bringing up a hand to brush her fingertips against her lips softly, thinking about the way her heart had come to a stop when she felt Beverly’s mouth on hers, only to restart and accelerate a moment later as Audra kissed her back. It had been a magical feeling, the swoop in her stomach and the twist in her gut and the dizziness in her head. And the night that followed had been just as sugary sweet, all kisses and giggles and happy smiles. Audra had wanted to ask about it then, had wanted to pull back and question what the kissing meant, if it meant anything at all, but she had been petrified to have the moment ruined that she hadn’t dared test it. Instead, she rushed out of the dorm the next morning, calling something about having a talk when she came back, simply so she could reminisce on something wonderful and amazing for the entire two weeks of break.

            The anticipation has been deadly, though, counting down the days and staring at the clock and wondering what’s going to happen. And it’s all lead to this, to her return to Kenduskeag, to now, and Beverly is not here, and Audra is kind of freaking out, perhaps being completely unreasonable but being unable to stop her mind from racing a mile a minute. What is Beverly isn’t here because she’s avoiding letting Audra down? Because yeah, Audra will be happy to stay friends, she’s made that clear, but that doesn’t mean she wants to stay friends. What she wants is to kiss Beverly whenever she wants and hold her hand and bring home her favorite food and surprise her with little gifts and—

            From her room, Audra can hear the door open, bringing her thoughts to a sudden halt as she listen closely, hearing shuffled footsteps. The door thuds shut again a moment later, followed by what sounds like the crinkling of a paper bag. Then, voice a little meek, she hears Beverly call out, “Audra? Are you back yet, or did I just forget to lock the door before leaving?”

            “You forgot to lock the door,” Audra responds instantly, carelessly tossing the pants she had been folding onto her bed and rushing out of her room, already grinning before her eyes even land on Beverly, standing by the kitchen counter and looking back at her with bright hazel eyes and a wide, unwavering smile. In her chest, Audra’s heart does a flip.

            “Damn, I need to stop doing that,” Beverly snickers, lifting a hand to brush a strand of hair out of her face. The action is so simple yet so gorgeous, and Audra is stuck, half of her wanting to round the counter and hug Beverly close, half of her wanting to just stay here and appreciate the view that is her roommate. Gesturing down to the counter, where a plain brown paper bag sits beside a cup tray, Beverly says, “I, uh- I’m pretty sure I remembered your order, but I haven’t had to get it for a couple weeks, so forgive me if I fucked it up. I can go get a new one if it ends up being way far off. And, um- I got some muffins, too, just plain blueberry ones. I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry or not.”

            Oh, and Audra is _this close_ to properly _swooning_ now, glancing down at the food and drink with wide eyes before glancing back at Beverly in mild shock. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

            Beverly shrugs, runs a hand through her hair, effectively ruining the whole purpose of brushing it out of her face a moment earlier. “I know. I just wanted to. And, I mean- I walked Eddie back to his dorm and we wanted to go out to get something anyway, but he wanted to clean up before Richie gets back, which- oh, you’re gonna love this!” Beverly brightens, brings her hands together to clap excitedly, and loudly exclaims, “Eddie and Richie talked it out, and they’re gonna try and be friends now!”

            “Really?” Audra asks, allowing herself this distraction, partly because she knows she’s going to end up clamming up anxiously once they approach the more serious topic, but mostly because she’s been wondering what’s going on with those two since Thanksgiving. She met Eddie that night, only for him to suddenly vanish and meet a very teary-eyed, pissed off Richie the following weekend. Eddie had seemed nice, and everyone promised her that he’s a great guy, but they never went in depth about the issues happening there, claiming that it’s not their business to share, which she completely understood and respected. Richie had looked ready to tell her, but was quickly shut down when Beverly reminded him that it wasn’t fair to talk shit if Eddie wasn’t there to defend himself. Audra hasn’t brought it up since, but she’s wondered about it whenever someone mentioned those two. Plus, anything that makes Beverly look this excited has to be good news, which is why Audra relaxes into a grin and says, “That’s great!”

            “It really is,” Beverly agrees, nodding enthusiastically. “I mean, I haven’t known either of them super long, but they’re both already so important to me and I just know they’ll get along great now that they’ve pulled their heads out of their asses. Eddie has his struggles and Richie has his secrets, and I think Stan is kind of pissed at Richie for forgiving Eddie so quickly, but I’m just so fucking relieved that it’s starting to work out because having two friends who were constantly pissed at each other was just fucking exhausting.” She lets out a huff of a laugh, opens the paper bag and pulls out the muffins inside, glancing back at Audra with a small smile before asking, “So, are you hungry, or should I put one of these in the fridge for you to have later?”

            The conversation is so nice, so light, and Audra wants more than anything to bring up the elephant in the room, but she can’t make herself do it, can’t choke out the questions bubbling in the back of her throat. Instead, she smiles wider, plops herself down on one of the stools by the counter, and happily chirps, “Honestly? I’m starving.”

 

 

 

 

            The dorm is not a mess, per say, but it is not very clean, either.

            Eddie is proud to say he is not as much of a neat freak as his mother tried to condition him to be. He had been for a long time, a majority of his middle school and high school years spent carrying hand sanitizer in his pocket and scrunching his nose at the mere concept of too many germs, but around his seventeenth birthday – two weeks after his birthday, to be exact, when his doctor pulled him aside and murmured him the truth behind his mother’s actions – he forced himself to calm down. It had been hard, resisting the urge to hold the traditions his mother conditioned him to follow after his father’s death, but he’s worked his ass off to shake off those habits. Sure, he has to admit that he’s probably a little more overly organized than necessary, but he’s glad about that, because even the tiniest bit of clutter looks like a disaster in the small size of the scholar dorms. And, over the past two weeks, he hasn’t really been in his dorm, only stopping by a few times to switch out clothes or grab something small before going back to Beverly’s dorm to continue their holiday festivities.

            He’s never had a cavity before, but he consumed so many sweets in the past two weeks, he’s starting to question if scheduling a dentist appointment might be necessary in the near future.

            There’s no real reason for him to be cleaning right now, but when he opened his door, fully intending to just drop off his bag of shit before going to get some food with Beverly, he felt his fingers twitch, an itch at the back of his neck, and he quickly ushered Beverly out of the room and then started picking things up. To be fair, there’s not a whole lot of stuff that needs to be picked up, but he just feels so antsy all of a sudden, restless and unsure and in need of releasing this energy in some productive way. And he knows that part of it is the fact that he wants to make some kind of good impression, as if him and Richie are meeting for the first time all over again – and that is what it feels like, a whole new start, where Eddie won’t allow himself to jump to conclusions and Richie won’t let his frustration spit out something uncalled for and harsh, though the latter of that is also kind of Eddie’s fault, but that’s not important. What matters is that they’ve built a bridge over the shitshow that was the first quarter and now Eddie wants to do something good to start the second quarter off. Which is, apparently, cleaning up the slight mess of random items on the floor and wiping away the dust on the window sill.

            It kind of helps to ease the slight anxiety in his chest, and by the time he hears the door open, he’s done cleaning up and sitting on his bed with his sketchbook in his lap, doodling down random shapes and half-assed drawing of whatever comes to mind. He doesn’t even consciously react to the door opening until he hears Richie says, “Oh, good, you’re actually using the one I got you.”

            Eddie blinks, shocked by the sudden voice, and looks up at Richie in confusion. “I’m- what?”

            “The book,” Richie elaborates, tugging his suitcase through the doorway with one hand and gesturing vaguely in Eddie’s direction with the other. It takes another second for Eddie to understand that he’s talking about the sketch book, then quickly realizes that this is, in fact, the one that Richie had gifted him for Christmas. He doesn’t have time to think of a response before Richie’s kicking the door shut and continuing with, “I wasn’t sure what’s, like, good quality and bad quality, you know? So I just tried to remember the one I’ve seen you drawing in before and got the one that I thought was right.”

            “Oh.” Eddie nods slightly, glancing down at the book quickly before looking back up at Richie with a slight smile, though the action is sort of tense, a little timid, kind of forced. He didn’t really take into consideration how accustomed he is to snapping at Richie, and harsh words bubble in the back of his mind like an instinct, unreasonably difficult to push away. After a moment, the unkind response fades into the background, allowing him to smile a little bit wider, a little more genuine, and say, “Thanks, by the way. For, uh… getting me a gift, I guess. You had no reason to.”

            Richie shrugs, plopping down on his bed with a careless hop, letting his suitcase fall to the floor to be dealt with later. “I got it before I was pissed at you. Thought it might, like, make you like me or something. I was literally so close to burning it when Stan told me what happened on Thanksgiving, but I love getting people presents, so I kept it anyway.” He flashes Eddie a grin, toothy and wide, and adds, “I’m glad it’s not shit. I was seriously so worried I’d somehow get a sketch book that was… I don’t know, offensive? Fuck, I have no clue, but I spent like an hour looking at all of them before Stan told me to pick the one that looked most like the one you already had so we could leave.”

            Letting out a quiet laugh, Eddie decides to put his sketch book away, flipping it shut and setting it down on the ground beneath his bed while he asks, “So, how was your break? Other than the whole being stuck here for a few days thing at the start, I mean.”

            “Decent,” Richie answers simply, not looking particularly interested in going more in depth. Eddie stares at him for a long moment, waiting for more, and can’t help but to release a slight noise of frustration when Richie doesn’t provide anything else. The sound makes Richie snort, and only then does he continue, explaining, “It was about as good as you could expect. Stan spent pretty much the entire two weeks at my house because his family doesn’t really celebrate any holidays, and we did all the cheesy Christmas shit with my family. Don’t know what else to tell ya, Eds.”

            “I was kind of hoping for some specifics, but sure,” Eddie shrugs. “I mean, Beverly and I just did cheesy Christmas shit, too, so.”

            Sitting up, Richie hums lightly in response, though his features seem to take on something more wary, something a little bit timid. Before Eddie has the chance to ask about the shift in mood, he meekly says, “Since I brought up Stan, uh… I told him about the talk we had, you know? And how we’re gonna try and be friends, and he’s… I mean, I don’t know how to explain it. He’s not, like, angry or anything, but he’s definitely a little… reluctant, I guess, about forgiving you so quickly, you know? Like- I don’t know. He gets really, uh- protective, I guess? And I think he’s kind of afraid that me not cutting ties or something is just gonna end up badly, or something. I don’t know.” He tries for a smile of some sort, but it falls a little flat. “Just- I know no one else is gonna have a problem with you, and everyone has been wanting to hang out with you again, ever since everything happened, but Stan might… I don’t think he’s going to be an asshole, but if he’s kind of cold towards you, that’s why, and I’m sorry in advance.”

            Which isn’t exactly a comforting thing to hear, but Eddie can’t really act surprised, can he? After all, he brought this upon himself, and he had anticipated the consequences after him and Richie agreed on building a bridge over the shitshow that was their first quarter. He swore to have some faith in himself, promised that he’d find a way to make it work, to fix the problems he caused. Which is why, though the idea of someone being blatantly upset with him is kind of stressful, kind of heavy, he dismissively waves a hand and assures, “Don’t be sorry. He has every right to be mad at me after the way I acted, towards you and towards him. That just means I have to… win him over, I guess. Prove that I’m not actually a dick and that I want to make things right after the shit I did.”

            And Richie really smiles then, a toothy kind of grin. With a joyous little lilt in his voice, he says, “I’m liking this newfound confidence of yours, Mister Kaspbrak. Tell me, are you still against giving dancing a try, or do you think I could use this confidence to make you switch majors?”

            “Oh, fat fucking chance, Tozier,” Eddie snickers, shaking his head in amusement. “You’re lucky you got me to dance once. That’s never, and let me make this clear, _never_ going to happen again.”

             Richie doesn’t look disheartened by this, eyes only glimmering with something bright. “Nah, I don’t believe that for a second. Give it some time. I’ll get you up and dancing eventually. I always end up getting my friends to dance with me. It’s what you signed up for, knowingly or not.”

            It sounds like a promise, or maybe a challenge, Eddie can’t be sure. Either way, the only thing he can think to respond with is a semi-confident, “I’d like to see you try.”

 

 

 

 

            When Ben discovered that he was the first to make it back to the dorm, he wasn’t that surprised or concerned. After all, his flight has landed unreasonable early and he was on campus by eight in the morning, so he had a feeling that there would barely be anyone else at the school, and he was certain that Mike wouldn’t be back before him. It had felt a little eerie, sure, walking into the dorm and taking in the slight amount of dust that had collected over the past two weeks, the only sound being his own breathing and footsteps, but it was to be expected. He hadn’t been bothered.

            Then, hours went by, he unpacked his bag, took a nap, and waited excitedly for his friend to return. By noon, he was a little unsure, but by four in the afternoon, he was a little bit worried, too. He sent Mike a text asking him how far out he was, but waiting for a response was too nerve-wracking. That’s why, even though he knows he’s being a little unreasonable, he’s currently standing outside of room 203, his hand lowering, having just knocked on the wooden surface. A few moments go by with no indication of someone inside, but before he can try knocking again, he hears a noise – a slight shuffling, followed by slow footsteps. Ben waits, patient, and watches the door get pulled open, revealing a clearly disheveled looking Bill Denbrough on the other side.

            “Oh,” Bill murmurs, blinking once, the action slow and looking a little bit drunk. Ben can’t help but startle at the sight before him – despite it only being two weeks since last seeing him, it looks as though Bill has aged years, bags beneath his eyes, skin pale and dull, overall appearance a bit frail. He feels his mouth part around words he can’t really get out, and only manages to tune back into reality when Bill asks, “What, uh- wuh-what are you doing here?”

            Ben needs another second to process the way Bill looks, and even more so to shake away the surprise of the weakness in his voice, the slight stutter in his words – he can recall Bill mentioning having a stutter when he was younger, but he can also recall Bill explaining that he went through extensive speech therapy in high school and only ever stuttered during moments of distress. Ben almost points this out, but something tells him not to, making his swallow his curiosities and instead answer, “I just- I’m being paranoid, but Mike isn’t back yet, and I thought- I thought you might know where he is, or maybe that he’d be here, or…” he trails off, shaking his head, and can’t stop himself from asking, “Are you… are you okay?”

            For a long minute, Bill only looks at Ben blankly, as if not really seeing him, a strange glint in his gaze that makes Ben feel as though he’s being looked through. Then, slowly, Bill responds, “I’m fuh-fine. Mike’s plane just luh-landed twenty minutes ago. He’ll be on campus any time now.”

            “Oh, okay,” Ben mumbles, his mind reeling, scrambling to come up with something else to say. That’s all he came here to do, wanting to know where his roommate is and if he’s okay, but he has a feeling that he shouldn’t leave quite yet. Not when Bill looks so… not fine. The opposite of what fine is. He’s just about to offer a simple thank you, maybe ask how Bill’s break was, just to keep the conversation going, when Bill turns around and makes his way back inside, leaving the door wide open. Ben stands there, frozen and unsure, before cautiously making his way inside as well. His eyes follow Bill as he ambles over to the sofa and falls onto it, knees automatically curling up to his chest. Unsure of what else to do, Ben makes his way to the sofa as well, carefully lowering himself into the empty space on Bill’s right, and questions, “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t… you don’t seem okay.”

            Unlike before, Bill doesn’t offer a verbal response, only lifting his shoulders in a little shrug and staring at the TV, where some random movie that Ben doesn’t recognize is playing. And Ben feels a little stifled, a little mystified, trying to make sense of this. Sure, Bill hasn’t been the most eccentric of people, have come across as fairly laid back and at ease since Ben met him, never really raising his voice or making a big show of things. He’s quiet, and he has shadows on his features, an obvious past that Ben hasn’t heard much about lurking over his mind like an umbrella of sorts, but this… this is much deeper than that. Bill looks like a shell, blank and messy and unkempt.

            Ben isn’t equipped for this. He considers Bill a friend, yes, but he has not known Bill long enough to know how to handle this, to know the best way to offer comfort. He could try, and he supposes he will, but he can’t help but be afraid that any attempt he makes will only worsen things. Beverly should be the one to do this, or Mike – someone who knows Bill better than he does, someone who can provide what he needs, whether it be kind words or a shoulder to lean on. Ben isn’t that someone, but there is nobody else here, so he believes he’s going to have to be.

            Somehow, in some way. Ben will have to be enough.

            “Can I…” He stops, clears his throat, and tried again. “Can I ask what’s wrong?”

            And Bill doesn’t flinch away or pull his lips down in a grimace, but something in his eyes gets heavier and harder to look at. “No,” he winds up answering, voice barely there, sounding dead tired and mentally absent. “I duh-don’t want to tuh-tuh-talk about it.”

            “Okay,” Ben agrees quickly, not wanting to push for information that Bill is not willing to share. He feels like he’s trying to balance on a tight rope – lean too far and he’ll topple over the edge. Or, push too much and Bill will topple over the edge. Either way, someone would be falling and he wants to prevent that from happening. Honestly, he’s getting the feeling that his presence is more harmful than anything else, which is why, after clearing his throat, he asks, “Do you want me to leave?” Because he doesn’t want to worsen a clearly not good situation, and if Bill wants him to go, he will. He’ll be sure to tell Mike that something is up and hope that someone can do better than he is right now, but he’ll go willingly and without a fight. And he thinks that’s what Bill wants, until—

            “No,” Bill says again, softer this time, voice a little watery and uneven. “No, you can- you can stuh-stay. I wuh-want you to stay.”

            And Ben does not know what to do, does not know how to help, but he does know that if Bill wants him to stay, then he’s going to stay right here and he’s going to do the best he can.

 

 

 

 

            Perhaps, if Stan had not been looking down at his phone, he would have noticed Mike sooner, would have had time to comprehend seeing him again, would have been able to think about how he should react and have a reasonable approach. Maybe, had he been able to think it through, he wouldn’t have quite literally bumped into Mike as they both made their towards the entrance of the dorms, and it this might have gone differently. Only, he did none of those things, and now he’s left with the aftermath of his actions – dealing with the fact that, despite the fact that they had yet to really talk about what they are, he instinctively threw himself at Mike and planted a kiss directly on his unsuspecting mouth.

            Thankfully, Mike doesn’t seem bothered when he pulls back, confusion melting into excitement as soon as he realizes that it’s Stan standing before him. “Oh,” he says simply, and even in that single syllable there’s a lilt of joy, a hint of something pure, something great. Stan merely blinks, scrambling to think of an explanation, some kind of apology for not even offering a greeting, but then Mike lifts a hand, curls it against the soft curve of Stan’s cheek, thumb brushing just below his eye, and he murmurs a quiet, “Hey,” before pulling Stan in and kissing him again.

            Stan didn’t take notice to this before, had been too caught up in the simple fact that he was kissing Mike, mind reeling to grasp it, but now he can take a moment to really appreciate what it is, what it’s like. Because Mike kisses much like he talks, sweet and smooth and loving, with the occasional teasing scrape of teeth over Stan’s lower lip. It’s pleasant, making Stan’s heart slow with relaxation and ease before picking up speed a moment later, butterflies fluttering in his stomach and his gut twisting. He’s not sure how long they stay like this, can’t quite place when he twisted his fingers into the material of Mike’s shirt to pull him closer, but he knows that the smile on his face is permanent when they pull away, knows he must look like a giddy child on Christmas morning when he blinks his eyes open and stares at Mike with wide, happy eyes. “Hi,” he breathes out in response, voice light, airy.

            “Can I kiss you every time I say hi?” Mike asks with a chuckle, looking equal parts amused and fond. He takes a shuffled step back, putting a little bit of space between them, but he keep cupping Stan’s face in his palm and lets out an appreciative hum when Stan uses his grip on Mike’s shirt to tug him back in, noses bumping together. Stan offers a wide, toothy grin.

            “You can kiss me whenever you want,” he replies, eyelids fluttering shut, and he almost pulls Mike in again to seal their lips together in a third kiss, but Mike resists when he tries, making him freeze.

            There’s an odd glint in Mike’s eyes now, a silent question. “I feel like I should ask you about… all of this before I can kiss you whenever I want,” he says softly, almost timidly. Unsure of what else to do, Stan merely nods once, quickly, brisk, meek. Mike sinks his teeth into his lower lips and carefully steps away again, only this time he drops his hand, Stan doing the same, and he’s on edge now, a little afraid. But Mike reaches over, grabs his hand, intertwines their fingers, and tells him, “I… I really like you. Like, a lot. And I think you like me, but I want to make sure. Before we… before I can keep kissing you, you know? And if you don’t, if I’m wrong, then that’s fine, too—”

            Stan shakes his head, interrupting him with a rushed out, “I do, I definitely do. I mean, did you fucking hear the song I wrote about you? I’ve been crushing on you since I first laid eyes on you. Ask Richie, he’s made fun of me a lot for how stupidly gone I am for you. It’s, like, actually embarrassing.”

            Lips twitching up into a wide grin, Mike lets out a gust of air, relief clear on his features. “Oh, thank _god,”_ he breathes, and, like a magnet unable to resist the pull of a stronger force, he surges forward again, slotting their mouths together in a much quicker, much more eager kiss. Stan barely has time to reciprocate before Mike is pulling back again, and now it’s Mike that looks like a giddy child on Christmas morning, asking, “So, can we, like, do something, then? Like, see a movie, or go get dinner, or- or something? Just, anything that can be classified as a date? Because I’ve been wanting to take you on a date for about three months now and I don’t think I can wait any longer now that I know that you want this too. I’ll even pay for everything! I have, like, a couple hundred bucks that distant relatives gave me for Christmas, plus the money I saved over summer to pay for food and shit this year, so I can afford it.”

            “You talk a lot when you’re excited,” Stan muses cheekily, bringing up a hand to flick at Mike’s nose, reveling in the sound of Mike’s laughter that follows. Mike just continues to look at him, though, features open and vulnerable and expectant. As much as Stan thinks he could enjoy drawing the moment out a little bit longer, possibly making a quick joke or simply teasing Mike a little more just to make him laugh again,  he finds that he doesn’t want to do either of those things nearly as much as he wants to just offer an answer. Which is why, after kissing Mike again, quick and soft and sweet, he nods his head and he says, “I would love to go on a date with you, but there is no way in hell I’m letting you pay for all of it. We’re either gonna split the cost or there’s no date. Deal?”

            “Yes, yeah, okay,” Mike quickly agrees, pressing a feather light kiss to Stan’s cheek, lips skimming softly over the skin there. “Deal. One hundred percent, absolutely, deal.”

 

 

 

 

            “Don’t look so scared,” Richie comments briefly, offering somewhat of a comforting smile as he slides his phone into his back pocket, turning the corner with ease. “You look like you’re marching into war. Relax, they’re your friends and they missed you. This is gonna be a fun hang out, not a fist fight.”

            Eddie hums, trailing to a stop as Mike and Ben’s dorm room comes into sight, and even from here he can faintly make out the noise coming from inside – the laughter, the chatter. Six people having fun and enjoying each other’s presence. And Eddie had been excited this morning, when Richie got the text from Mike saying they were having a little get together later to catch up after break, all of them, and he had laughed joyously when Richie texted back saying Eddie would be joining them and all Mike responded with was probably close to a hundred exclamation marks. Now, however, he feels a little terrified, a little frozen, because he hasn’t spoken to any of them other than Beverly and Richie for almost a month now, two weeks before winter break even began, and even if they weren’t upset with him for what he did, there’s no way they won’t be upset with him now, right? Cutting his friends off like that so suddenly and silently, that’s bound to piss someone off.

            Not noticing the fact that Eddie is no longer walking, Richie takes a few steps forward, then comes to a halt when he glances over and sees Eddie is not by his side. Looking back, he lets out a soft sigh at Eddie’s strained features and makes his way back, hands shoved into his front pockets and nose scrunched in uncertainty on his face. “Look,” he starts, voice a little weak but words confident as he says them. “I can’t say there won’t be a little bit of frustration, but… these are some of the nicest people in the world, Eddie. Like, I could literally punch them all in the face, and they might be mad at first, but it wouldn’t take long for them to forgive me. Maybe that’s bad, but I told you before I left for break that we’re a little family. A fucked up little family, definitely in need of some improvements, but it’s a work in progress, you know? And they want you here, so even if it’s a little tense at first… it’s gonna be fine. Okay?”

            “Yeah,” Eddie murmurs, nodding to himself. He flexes his fingers by his sides, curls them up into fists, and then unfurls those fists to flex his fingers again. There’s a restless energy within him, hot and unrelenting, burning his skin from the inside, causing his teeth to sink into his lower lip, scrape over the surface as he releases it, and clench his jaw over and over again. “Yeah, no, you’re right,” he goes on quietly, quickly. “Just… I just…” He stops, shakes his head, feels his brows pinching together and lets out a heavy exhale. “I shouldn’t be forgiven this easily, you know? Like, I- I fucked up, really badly. I did a really bad thing, and I spent months acting like a dick towards you and Stan, and I- I shouldn’t be welcomed back with open arms after that. I don’t deserve that. I know I don’t deserve that, so I don’t understand why you’re being so nice about this, or why everyone other than Stan seems so ready and willing to have me back.”

            “Because you’re not an asshole,” Richie tells him simply, brows raising. The response makes Eddie blink, momentarily freezing all his nervous ticks, and look at Richie in silent question, causing Richie to explain, “You did asshole-ish things, yeah, and that’s not okay, but you… you had your reasons, and that doesn’t excuse it, but we’re all human, you know? I’ve overreacted over smaller things than a misunderstanding. Plus, you clearly want to make things better, and we can see that. There’s no reason to hold a bad thing over a good person if they’re already trying to make up for what they did.”

            And it’s solid advice, but it’s the way Richie says it that makes Eddie pause, makes his own problems fade into the background, even if only for a second. “You say a lot of things that sound like you’re speaking from experience,” Eddie points out – and he means it. Richie often has a certain heaviness behind his words, like he’s recalling something when he says then.

            Richie only shrugs, looking unbothered. “My life seems to consist of good people doing bad things, especially to me, so I guess you could say that. The point still stands, though.”

            The curiosity ignites in Eddie’s stomach, the need to ask questions and hear answers, to understand these things, the piece together a clear picture behind the vague statements. And his curiosity is only worse now that Richie is being a little more open with him, a little less secretive, hinting more and more at a past that Eddie is dying to hear about, but then he remembers that he hasn’t opened up about his only life, either, and he knows it would be unfair to pry into Richie’s business when he personally isn’t ready to share his own. So, instead of letting out the many questions bubbling in the back of his throat, he merely nods again, glances down at the floor, and then looks back at Richie with a small smile. “Okay,” he says, shaking out his hands by his sides. “Okay, yeah. I’m good. I’m ready to go in.”

            “Good, because I was starting to get a little antsy,” Richie jokes, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he grins and takes a step back, towards room 110, closer to the sound of their friends laughing and having fun inside. Eddie rolls his eyes and makes his way forward, walking around Richie and barely suppressing the urge to look back when Richie says, “Oh, and by the way, you’re officially a level one on my friendship scale. In case you need a refresher, Stan’s a level seven, and my poor, tragic backstory is revealed at level five, so. Take that as you will.”

            “Huh,” Eddie breathes out in mild surprise. “Okay. That’s… yeah. Okay. Cool.” Coming to a stop outside of Mike and Ben’s dorm, Eddie can’t help but grin to himself, and he’s too busy feeling a little elated by that information that he can’t even remember how nervous he had been as Richie raises a hand to knock on the door. And he thinks that, no matter how hard this may be – and if Richie’s right, then it won’t actually be all that hard – he knows he’ll be able to handle it. If he’s able to go from Richie Tozier’s shit list to a level one friend, then he can face the people he ghosted four weeks ago. Hell, he can probably do _anything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am unreasonable excited to finally reach the beginning of ben and bill's development yall YALL
> 
> also i changed my tumblr url to lo-v-ers so dont look up sunsetozier if u want to talk to me abt this fic (but also please talk to me about this fic please i love this fic so much it's my baby and i always want to talk about it.
> 
> also also: when i get about halfway done with this fic, i'm gonna start asking if anyone would want a sequel for it, so just,,,, keep that in mind, bc i have ideas for a sequel but i don't want to put effort into plotting it if no one will want to read it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you notice the changes? did you see them?  
> it's okay if you didn't, because i'm gonna point them out now:
> 
>  
> 
> **this is now part one in a series!**
> 
>  
> 
> so, i don't know for sure HOW i want to approach this, but paranoia will not be the only fic in this universe. i won't worry too much on the specifics until this fic is closer to being done (almost halfway there!!), but either there will be a series of one shots when paranoia is over, OR there will be an official sequel and more. again, not sure yet, but there's plenty of time before that happens anyway, so no need to worry about it.
> 
> i also changed the description of the fic, but that's not super important, i just like this description better than the last one lol
> 
> also! updates should hopefully be more frequent now, because i won't have so many other projects and stuff i'll be working on. i do have work and stuff, though, so it won't be going back to weekly updates, unfortunately, i can confidently say, however, that there shouldn't be another month between updates. at least two chapters per month is my goal and i plan to stick to that.
> 
> enjoy chapter eight!!

            To say that Stan is wary is an understatement.

            He knows, at least on some level, that Eddie isn’t just some asshole person, and he knows, from what Richie told him, that Eddie really did have his reasons for acting like he did. Not an excuse for being a dick, no, but when explained to him in detail, Stan has to admit that he can understand why Eddie had been so quick to jump to conclusions and deem Richie a prick. Again, not an excuse, but still.

            And he can’t deny that Eddie seems kind of cool, in a pretty distant sort of way. He’s seen how all his friends get along with him, and the talk they had on Thanksgiving (before the phone call, when it went from a pretty decent conversation to a shouting match in the parking lot) had been pretty nice. So, like, sure. Sure, Eddie seems alright. Eddie seems good.

            But Eddie also spent the entire first quarter treating Richie like shit, and Stan’s not exactly sure he can just up and forgive that like it doesn’t matter, because it _does_ matter. It matters a lot, actually. In fact, in Stan’s mind, there’s little about this situation that matters more. There had been a handful of days where he’d meet up with Richie and see how exhausted he was from trying to understand why Eddie hated him, trying to think of a way to fix the situation and make it better when it wasn’t his fault to begin with. God, and the shitshow that was Thanksgiving, having to drive back to Witcham and comfort an already distraught Richie, only to then have to tell him that the scholarship administrator knew about him bussing home… Stan doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forget to raw fear in Richie’s eyes, fear that had been put there because of a situation that got out of hand, because Eddie didn’t know any better and accidentally put that information into the wrong hands. Stan tries not to make a habit of pointing blame at people over things that weren’t intentional, but that’s not something he can just shake off.

            So, maybe he’s a little… tense, about Eddie hanging out with them again. And maybe he’s a little scared that Richie and Eddie becoming friends will only prove to be a mistake. When he tells Richie this, however, he merely waves a dismissive hand and says, “Nah, it’s fine. We talked it out. Everything’s chill.” Richie also said that in high school, though, when everything was definitely not chill, so Stan doesn’t find that response particularly comforting. If anything, it makes his wariness worse.

            Which is why, not knowing what else to do, he decides to go to the source of his uncertainty.

            He finds Eddie in his dorm, thanks to Richie happily telling him that Eddie’s classes should be done for the day (after making Stan promise not to let this talk turn into more pointless arguments). The door isn’t closed all the way when he walks up to it, one hand gripping the strap of his bookbag while the other reaches forward to push the door open more, the action a little slow and kind of timid. He can hear music playing inside, and almost expects to find Eddie napping or simply lounging around. Instead, he sees Eddie on top of one of the dressers, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he works on painting something bright red on the wall. Stan blinks once, a little caught off guard, and brings up a hand to knock on the door frame and alert Eddie of his presence.

            “Oh, _shit—!”_

            Eddie lurches back at the sound, paintbrush dropping and body flailing as Stan rushes forward to put a hand on his back and stop him from toppling to the ground. It takes a moment of fumbling, but eventually Eddie winds up standing on the ground, looking at Stan with wide, unblinking eyes. “Jesus Christ,” Stan huffs out, withdrawing his hand now that Eddie’s not about to fall on his face. “If I knew you’d freak out like that, I would have had Richie let you know that I was stopping by.”

            “I didn’t freak out,” Eddie tells him, but it’s kind of meek and embarrassed rather than defensive. He looks away, smoothing his hand over the front of his shirt, and adds, “You just scared the shit out of me while I was sitting on a high surface. That’s completely different than freaking out.”

            Stan almost laughs at that, but it dies somewhere in the back of his throat as he holds up his hands in some kind of half-assed surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

            Lifting his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and murmurs, “It’s fine.” He shuffles his feet, averts his gaze to the floor, then looks up at Stan in a tense sort of confusion. “What, uh- what are you doing here? Isn’t Richie in class till, like, five, or something?”

            “Four fourty-five,” Stan corrects simply, making his way to Richie’s bed and tossing his bag onto the duvet before sitting on the edge. Eddie watches him warily, but mirrors his actions by sitting on his own bed, brows pinching together as Stan tells him, “And I’m actually here to talk to you. If you’re not busy.”

            “Um.” Eddie blanches for a moment, eyes flicking around the room, as if trying to find an excuse to get out of this situation, before settling on Stan again. “I’m not- I’m not busy. I can talk. I guess.”

            Brows rising, Stan repeats, “You guess?”

            Eddie waves a hand in front of him in some vague gesture, explaining, “Well, yeah, I guess. I don’t know what you want to talk about, so—”

            “I want to talk to you about Richie,” Stan cuts in, not wanting to beat around the bush. He’s here for a specific reason, and he has an intro to piano class in half an hour, so he has to make this quick. Eddie seals his lips shut, not looking very surprised by this fact, but his brows still pinch together anxiously as he nods his head once and waits for Stan to continue. Bluntly, Stan tells him, “I don’t trust this situation that you two are in, to put it simply. I don’t really trust you to not start treating him like shit again. It honestly just kind of boils down to the fact that I don’t trust you.”

            Eddie nods again, sucking in a sharp breath. “That, uh- that makes sense. You have no reason to trust me, so… I don’t really expect you to trust me yet. I wouldn’t really trust me, either.”

            “Not only have you given me no reason to trust you, but you almost got me best friend kicked out of Kenduskeag,” Stan points out, tone bitter and eyes narrowing just slightly. Eddie looks away, focuses his gaze on the wall, and clasps his hands in his lap, offering no response. He can’t defend himself, no matter how much his instincts are telling him to – that entire ordeal was one hundred percent his fault. Even if it had been unintentional, there’s no where else to point the blame, and he knows. Letting out a sigh, Stan crosses his arms over his chest, trying not to let his frustration get the best of him. He doesn’t break promises, especially not ones that he made with Richie. Even if trying to remain civil takes all of his will power and self-control, he going to do it because that’s what Richie wants him to do. It still takes a moment, though, for him to breathe in slow and feel the tension in his shoulders melt away. Only then does he continue, and all he does is ask, “Why do you want to be friends with Richie all of a sudden?”

            “Um.” Eddie looks back to Stan, blinking slowly. “What?”

            Meeting Eddie’s gaze straight on, Stan explains, “You spent months hating him, treating him like garbage because of something that’s not your business and not your place to judge in the first place. What I’m trying to understand is how you went from that to wanting to be best buds over the course of days.”

            For a long moment, Eddie doesn’t respond, only casting his gaze to the floor and pondering over the right way to word his answer. If he’s being honest, he can’t really pinpoint an exact reason for why he stopped trying to hate Richie – part of it was the exhaustion that came with always arguing, he knows, and the guilt that he felt when he almost got Richie’s scholarship taken away was all-consuming, but are those reasons or just factors to this bigger… thing? This unclear main picture of an issue that he hasn’t really been able to focus his eyes on and figure out? He can’t be sure, and he doesn’t want to offer a half-assed explanation, so he settles on saying, “I’m not an asshole.”

            Stan raises his brows, but doesn’t respond, waiting for Eddie to go on.

            “I acted like one,” he continues, “and that’s not okay, but I’m not an asshole. I guess I just realized that I was being a dick and I didn’t want to keep acting that way anymore.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, and he knows that doesn’t make much sense, but it’s the most coherent thought he can piece together right now. Unfortunately, Stan doesn’t look too convinced. Letting out a long, slow sigh, Eddie looks up to the ceiling, gives himself a moment to think of where to go from here, and then looks back at Stan and asks, “Is there anyway I can prove to you that I’m being honest here?”

            And Stan keeps looking at him, scrutinizing and considerate, eyes reflecting something analytic and almost mathematical, like he’s trying to understand the fiber of Eddie’s soul with this one look. Then, voice not exactly clipped but still not yet very warm, he answers, “Don’t give Richie a reason to regret forgiving you, and maybe I’ll start to build up a little trust, but I don’t think there’s anything that either of us can do right now that will make it much better.” Trying not to feel too let down by that response, Eddie nods and accepts the conversation for what it is. He’s expecting Stan to just get up and leave without another word, but then Stan sighs quietly, and he sounds a little desperate when he adds, “Just… don’t hurt him, okay? He hurts enough as it is. Way fucking more than you can even imagine.”

            Eddie doesn’t know what that means, but he doesn’t ask. He only nods and leaves it at that.

 

 

 

 

            “I just don’t get it,” Mike says, dangling upside down off the side of Beverly’s couch, one arm gesturing vaguely through the air as he speaks and his head lulling to the side to look at Beverly, who’s sitting on the other end of the couch and scrolling casually through her phone. “I mean, you guys kissed. A lot, according to what you told me. And you said you guys were planning to talk about it after break ended, right?” Beverly hums, nodding slightly and trying not to look as embarrassed as she feels. Mike huffs out a laugh and shakes his head fondly. “Well, it’s February. Break ended, like, three weeks ago.”

            Shrugging, Beverly tries to be dismissive and tells him, “We just haven’t gotten around to it.”

            Mike doesn’t look very convinced, pushing himself up until he’s able to twist around and sit properly next to her. “That seems unlikely, considering you live together, and I _know_ you’ve both been hanging out alone together recently because of how weird the group is being.”

            “Yeah, well, what about you?” Beverly deflects, though it’s a little half-assed, less of an actual deflection attempt and more of a way to change the subject. “You and Stan, huh? What’s going on there?”

            “We’ve been on a few dates,” Mike informs her simply.

            But Beverly doesn’t let it stop there, only cocking a brow at him and asking, “What is he to you, then? Are you guys boyfriends? Have you talked about that, or are you just going on dates?”

            The look on Mike’s face is that of someone trying to come across as more clueless than they really are. It’s not a very convincing look, but he commits to it, plays it up, bats his eyelashes at her in faux confusion and a slight frown. “Is there a difference?”

            It makes Beverly laugh, half amused and half incredulous. “Yeah, there is! Don’t play dumb with me, you’re the person who gives me all the romance tips in this friendship. Take your own advice. Hanlon. I’m pretty sure everyone on this planet can see how into you Stan is, and it’s not like your heart eyes are subtle. Make it official. Don’t be a fucking pussy, Michael.”

            “Alright, enough of that shit,” Mike scoffs, propping his elbow on the back of the couch and resting his chin in his palm. “You’re right, and I’ll do something about my own situation soon, but what are you gonna do, huh? I know you, Beverly Marsh. You’re not gonna deflect this until it blows up in your face and turns into something ugly. Talk to her before it’s too late.”

            Beverly considers waving a hand in the air dismissively, pushing the topic away and avoiding the confrontation entirely, but Mike isn’t looking at her judgmentally or harshly. He looks more sympathetic and sad for her, because he really does know her – he’s one of the few people who really knows her, all of her. Him and Bill are the only two people she’s opened her soul to in its entirety, all of her past and the dark spots in her brain and the things that haunt her on a day to day basis. And he knows why she’s so afraid of this, so scared to address the thing with Audra and risk it turning into something she isn’t prepared to handle. All he wants to do is help her, and be here for her, and offer whatever possible advice that he can. Her resolve crumbles at that, and all she can think to say is, “I just don’t want to ruin something that hasn’t really even started, you know?”

            “I know,” Mike nods, shifting forward slightly. He doesn’t make contact, though, only opens his arms slightly to give her the chance to make a move for comfort if she wants it, knowing how much she despises unsuspected touch when she’s already not feeling too hot. Gratefully, she accepts the offered embrace, melting into the hug and letting out a content sigh at the comfort that comes with it. She can feel Mike’s small grin against her hairline as he hugs her tight, and in his own kind of gentle voice that he only ever uses for the people he truly loves, he murmurs, “You told me you’re the strongest person you know, you know that? I don’t think you remember doing it because you were drunk off your ass, but it was the night before you told us about New York, and your parents, and… everything, I guess. But the night before, when you got wasted and came to our dorm, you told me that you’ve never met anyone as brave as you are. And that’s true for me, too. You’re the toughest person I’ve ever met, and I know this isn’t a fun thing to face, I know it’s terrifying, but you’re ballsy, Marsh, and you’re gonna be just fine.”

            And Beverly, although a little wary, believes him.

            She flips his words over in her head for the next few hours, while they watch a movie and make each other laugh with stupid jokes that don’t make much sense. She considers them when Mike gets a text from Stan asking to meet up somewhere for dinner, and she weighs her options as she winks at him and tells him to grow a pair and make it official. By the time she’s left alone in her dorm room, she’s picked through the thought so much that every little piece of it is committed to her memory, the idea memorized like a map, and she thinks – god, she hopes – that she knows what she should do.

            Audra’s class ends at five today, and she makes her way through the doorway at precisely five-fifteen, as she always does on Thursday afternoons. Unless their group has plans for the evening, but things have been a little bit strange since winter break ended – not in a bad way, but in a… well. In a strange way. In a tension between Eddie and Stan that has yet to be resolved. In something unreadable in Bill’s eyes that he won’t tell anyone about. In the way that Bill will sometimes look at Ben with that unreadable glint and without having to say a word Ben will move to sit beside him, and Bill doesn’t look any better after that, but his shoulders relax just a little. In the fact that things have happened and things are changing and they haven’t really managed to fully confront these changes.

            When Audra walks in, Beverly is making dinner.

            It’s a half-assed dinner, because they can’t really afford more than the cheap shit from the Dollar Tree, but they don’t usually make real meals so it still feels pretty special. For a long moment, Audra doesn’t really react, doesn’t know how to, only closing the door behind her and scanning over the scene, Beverly standing in front of the stove and stirring in the ingredients for the off brand white cheddar shells that she pulled out of the pantry. Then, kind of timid and curious, Audra steps forward, sets her stuff on the counter, and asks, “Something important happen that I didn’t know about?”

            “No,” Beverly answers, trying not to focus on the way her heart races inside her chest as she moves the pot away from the stove, flashing Audra a wide smile as she starts to separate the pasta into two bowls. “I just…” she trails off, lifting a single shoulder in half a shrug. “Felt like a good night to not order take out, you know?”

            “Okay…” Audra says, a little slow, a lot unconvinced, but she doesn’t try to press for more. She only nods, gratefully accepting the bowl that Beverly hands her and moving over to sit on the couch, and waits until Beverly is sitting beside her to part her lips and speak some more.

            But Beverly beats her to it, staring down at her food and pushing the pasta shells around with a clenched stomach and teeth sinking into her lower lip. Her words come out a little too soft, and Audra can’t quite make out what was said, but Beverly seems to know that already, as she quickly repeats, “I don’t think you really… know who I am.”

            Audra blinks once, the action slow and mystified. “What?”

            “You know part of me,” Beverly goes on, and she feels like of sick and messy and ready to crumble under the weight of what she’s doing, but she knows that it has to be done. “You know who I am here, at Kenduskeag, when things are going good and I’m feeling okay. You know this version of me, but you don’t know all of me. Where I came from, you know? What got me here, why I don’t go home during break and why I don’t talk about my family. You don’t know all of that, and you never ask.”

            Not knowing what else to do, Audra simply tears her gaze away from Beverly, looking at the wall with pinched brows and a fearful confusing brewing in her gut. “Oh.”

            “I’m not saying that because it’s a bad thing,” Beverly rushes out, eyes flickering up to Audra before nervously looking away. “I just- I—” Audra hears Beverly inhale, sharp and shaky, and mixed in with her bewilderment is a bit of concern. She almost reaches over to press a comforting hand to her shoulder, but she holds back and listens intently as Beverly chokes out, “I just don’t want you to kiss me again without knowing who you’re kissing, okay? I don’t want you to like me for who you know and then not like the rest of me, because you haven’t met a lot of who I am.”

            Audra sucks in a harsh breath, eyes bugging out slightly as she stares at Beverly in shock. This is the first time either of them has brought up the whole kissing thing since it happened, and she’d been hoping to have the chance to talk about it, but she didn’t think it would happen like this. “Beverly…” she breathes, shaking her head slightly with a hopeless sort of feeling building in her chest that is almost impossible to shove down. She doesn’t know what to say, how to express what she’s feeling – that she wants to know everything about Beverly, wants to kiss her no matter what.

            But Beverly just smiles at her, a kind-of-there smile and another half shrug. “You don’t have to say anything. I know what you’d say, anyway, and I hope that it’s true, but I want to make sure, you know? I want you to really know me before we have that talk about what we are after what happened before break. And I don’t want to just spring all of me on you right now, either, because that might be kind of overwhelming. Plus, I know that there are still things about you that I don’t know. So… I have an idea. A proposition, I guess. Something that won’t be too much pressure and will help us figure out how we feel and see where to go from there.”

            There’s a moment where Audra still wants to protest, but the logical side of her brain can see where Beverly is coming from and knows that arguing against this isn’t a good idea. So, instead, she nods once, takes a bite of her white cheddar shells, and says, “Okay. What’s your proposition?”

            “Well, for starters, more nights like this,” Beverly starts, looking pleased by how on-board Audra is with this. “Nights that are just us, where we can start opening up more and telling each other things we don’t know about each other yet. And, just… a lot of talking, and getting the hard stuff over with. And in a few weeks, or however long it takes to get everything we think should be known out in the open, we can just… sit down, and see what we want, and figure it out from there. Does that… I mean, is that okay?”

            “Hm…” Audra considers this, slowly taking another bite of her food and chewing it leisurely, before swallowing the pasta and decidedly answering, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

 

 

 

 

            Bill Denbrough is an oddity.

            Over the past month, things have been a little… different. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way that Ben doesn’t really understand. He doesn’t really know how it happened, either – all he can say for sure is that somehow, suddenly, he started spending every single evening in Bill’s dorm, watching a movie or just lounging around in Bill’s room and listening to music.

            It’s not that Ben’s going to complain about this development – he finds it quite calming, sitting in Bill’s quiet presence as the sun sets outside and the stars become visible through the window. He often brings whatever work he has for his classes with him, though he usually ends up shoving it to the side and jotting down vague lines of unclear poetry in a notebook instead. But as much as Ben enjoys this time, finds comfort in it, he is growing more and more concerned by the day, because Bill still looks just as distraught as he did on the first day back from winter break, and Ben still doesn’t know why.

            Sometimes, he thinks Bill is going to tell him. It’s usually later in the evening, when Ben is swallowing back yawns and trying to avoid returning to his own dorm for as long as possible, soaking in the comfort and the warmth that comes with these moments. He’ll be blinking down at the page, trying to read over the nonsense he wrote but not being able to really focus on them, and he’ll notice Bill looking at him out of the corner of his eye. For a long moment, he won’t move, giving Bill the chance to grab his attention without forcing Bill to make up an excuse for staring at him, but then Bill will look away, and he’ll yawn, and thirty minutes later Ben will be quietly tip toeing out of the room to avoid waking Bill up as he leaves. Sometimes, Stan will be out there when Ben leaves, and he always looks a little curious, but he mostly just looks concerned, because all of them have noticed Bill’s behavior and no one seems to have an answer for what’s going on inside Bill’s head.

            They ask him, at least once a day. First it was Beverly pulling him aside and murmuring a question about Bill’s well-being, to which he honestly shrugged and told her he has no clue. Then it was Mike, while Ben was working on his intro to poetry project and Mike was playing with the settings on his camera, and Ben’s answer had been the same. Eddie and Richie both asked him when Ben was lounging around at their dorm between classes, and Audra managed to catch up with him in the hallway a few days ago, where she subtly brought up Bill’s name until Ben had to insist that he really doesn’t know what’s going on. The only person who hasn’t asked is Stan, but Ben thinks that’s because Stan lives with Bill and doesn’t need to ask about how Bill is doing. He already knows that Bill isn’t doing okay, and he apparently doesn’t think pressing for the reason why is a very good idea.

            The thing is, Ben doesn’t know when he became this person. He doesn’t know when he became the one that people ask about when wanting to know about Bill. Like with Stan and Richie – if you want to know where Richie is, you ask Stan and he can tell you in an instant, and vice versa. Only this feels different from that, because two months ago, Ben and Bill weren’t like this. They were friends, decent friends, who sometimes showed each other the things they wrote and asked for feedback on them. They weren’t particularly close or anything, but now things are different. Ben doesn’t know why, but they are.

            Today, it seems, is not like every other.

            Ben’s classes go by in a breeze, and he doesn’t even think before heading to room 203, only having to knock once before Bill is pulling open the door and letting him in. And Bill looks no different now than he usually does, his clothes wrinkled and bags beneath his eyes and skin a scary pale, but something about this feels just a little bit off, something that Ben can’t quite place. He opts to shrug it off for the time being, instead following Bill to the couch, where a movie is already set up on the TV and Bill has a bundle of tangled up blankets waiting for them. Ben shrugs off his bag then, setting it on the ground and plopping onto the sofa with a little sigh, relaxing into the cousins with a sense of relief. His day has been easy, but he feels oddly tired, so he’s more than grateful to ignore the fact that he has a collection of incomplete poems that are supposed to be turned in tomorrow and spend the evening with Bill.

            “Huh-Here,” Bill says, drawing Ben’s attention, and before he knows it there’s a warm mug of fresh apple cider in his hands, the smell familiar and sweet, the weight and heat comfortable against his palms. Ben blinks once in mild surprise, looking up at Bill with wide eyes. He only shrugs lightly, takes a sip of his own apple cider, and murmurs, “I wuh-was craving it earlier, and I ruh-remembered how you shuh-showed me to make it on Thanksgiving, suh-suh-so…. yeah.”

            “Oh,” Ben breathes, gazing down at the drink considerately. He takes a quick sip, lets it ease his body and mind, and nods once. “Um. Thanks, Bill.”

            Bill smiles his not-really-there, kind of smile and turns towards the TV without a response.

            For a long time, nothing really happens. Ben drinks his cider, Bill sips at his, and whatever movie Bill had put on before continues to play. It isn’t until Bill switches on another movie – Lilo & Stitch, for some reason – that Ben feels a twitch in his fingers, and suddenly he’s pulling out his notebook and a pen, and he’s glancing from the blank page, to the TV, to Bill, and back again. Bill doesn’t seem bothered by this, is likely used to Ben writing like this around him, so Ben doesn’t feel too bad about diverting his attention to something else.

            Like they usually do when he’s writing poetry without the pressure of getting a good grade for it, the words seem to flow through him before his brain has the chance to process what they are, and before he knows it there’s something kind of coherent and proper on the page, and he thinks that it’s pretty good, too, but it doesn’t feel finished. For the life of him, he can’t think of what to add to it, though, so he only reads it again, lets out a slow breath that’s almost a sigh, and turns to the next page to start over.

            “This wuh-was my bruh-brother’s fuh-fuh-favorite movie,” Bill speaks up before Ben has the chance to work on a new poem. Ben looks up at him in surprise, then glances at the TV to find that Lilo & Stitch is still playing. He turns his gaze back to Bill then, just in time to watch him say, “It stuh-stopped being his favorite when he turned nuh-nine, but for a luh-luh-long tuh-time, we watched this every single nuh-night before going to bed. It wuh-was a truh-tradition, almost. The duh-day wasn’t over until we sat down and wuh-wuh-watched this together.”

            “Oh,” Ben mutters, almost as a whisper. He hasn’t heard much of anything about Bill’s family, about where he comes from – he knows that Bill’s from Maine, and he’s heard mentions of Bill’s brother prior to now, but only in brief conversations. It’s never been a topic that was ever really talked about. Ben clears his throat, setting down his pen and carefully setting his notebook on the coffee table, beside his now empty mug. “Uh- did you like this movie back then, or did you just watch it ‘cause he wanted to?”

            Bill flickers his gaze to Ben, and something in his eyes is hard to look at, stifling and harsh and sad and difficult to understand, and he answers, “I duh-didn’t really care buh-back then, but… it’s one of my fuh-fuh-favorite movies nuh-now. Becuh-cause of him.”

            Slowly, Ben nods, and he can’t decide if he should break their eye contact or not, but Bill doesn’t look away, so he figures he shouldn’t either. “It’s a good movie,” he offers, unsure of what else to say. He thinks it might be the wrong thing to say, because Bill looks away then, eyes glazing over slightly, but he kind of smiles, too, a mixture of some kind of happiness and overwhelming sadness mixed into a confusing sight of twisted features that makes Ben’s gut twist.

            “Yeah,” Bill murmurs with a somewhat shaky inhale. Ben thinks he can hear an audible crack in the wall of Bill’s resolve, the one hiding all his secrets, and though neither of them try to continue the conversation, Ben has a feeling that he might end up hearing plenty more, and very, _very_ soon.

 

 

 

 

            When Stan texted Mike about a last-minute (and fairly early) dinner, he didn’t really have a plan. And he knows that he probably, definitely, should have come up with one.

            For the most part, he just wanted to have something nice after his tense talk with Eddie, but he also wants to do something else, too. Because him and Mike are somewhere strange, hovering over the line of friends and more than without knowing for sure where they stand. And it’s kind of stupid, because they kiss a lot and they are affectionate a lot and they both confessed to liking each other, but they haven’t really made anything official and it’s starting to stress Stan out.

            Plus, he already confronted one thing today, might as well keep the train going, right? Get it over with, deal with the uncertainty head on, and hope it goes well. What could go wrong?

            Well, technically, everything could go wrong. That’s always possible.

            He calls Richie while he waits for Mike to arrive.

            “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one in this friendship?” Richie asks him, and Stan can tell that Richie is rolling his eyes but is too enraptured in his own fear to bother to address it. Richie must sense this, too, because his joking disappears in a flash, and his voice turns soft and reassuring as he says, “Stan, Mike is, like, head over heels for you. You’re on the same page, I guarantee it. All you gotta do is get the words out there, and you two will be just fine.”

            “But what if it isn’t? What if it doesn’t end up _just fine?”_ Stan questions, chewing on his thumb nail and lulling his head back to stare at the ceiling, scanning over the tiled pattern and the dark red colors. Maybe he shouldn’t have picked such a simple place, a cheap little restaurant about five minutes off campus. Maybe he should have made reservations somewhere nice and worn a suit and bought a million roses because Mike deserves all of that and more and Stan feel sufficiently unprepared.

            God, he thinks his throat is closing. Is he panicking? He might be panicking.

            His breath gets caught in his chest, and that answers that. He is definitely panicking. “Richie,” he says, but it’s kind of airy and quiet and afraid, very fucking afraid. “I’m not- Rich, this is- this is all new to me, okay? I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what I’m doing. What if I come on too strong? What if he just wants to kiss but doesn’t want to date? What do I do?”

            “Okay, first of all, take a drink of water and breathe,” Richie instructs him simply, and Stan thinks he can faintly make out the sound of someone else talking before a door click shuts and the sound is muffled. He remembers then, kind of suddenly, that it’s only four thirty and Richie is still in class. He kind of feels bad, but he remembers fleeing class plenty of times in high school for Richie, and that guilt melts into gratitude. With a shaky breath, Stan does as he’s told, grabbing the glass of water in front of him and taking a long drink from it, letting the cool liquid ease him and sucking in a slow breath through his nose as he sets the glass back down. When he exhales, he feels some of his tension flow out of him.

            “I’m good,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut and breathing slow, relaxing him further.

            Richie hums. “Okay. Now talk to me. What do you want to tell him?”

            For a long moment, Stan considers this, eyes still shut and gut twisting at the thought. After a minute or two of this, he decidedly answers, “I want to ask him on a date. A real one, a proper one, not like the nervous kind of dates we’ve had so far, you know? Maybe… a valentine’s day date. And I want to ask him if he wants to be boyfriends. I want to try and make us official.”

            “You do?”

            Stan thinks his heart stops completely as his eyes fly open, gaze landing on a wide-eyed Mike Hanlon standing a mere two feet away. His lungs don’t work, his stomach clenches, his entire body goes tense, and the only think he can think to say is, “Oh, _shit.”_

            Faintly, he hears Richie chuckle and tell him, “Looks like this is your chance, Uris. Let me know how it goes.” Then, with a little beep, the call ends and Stan is left with no choice but to face this situation straight on and hope he doesn’t devolve into panic again.

            “Um.” Stan flounders for a moment, setting his phone on the table top and fumbling to gesture towards the empty seat across from him. “Can you, uh- do you want to sit? Please?”

            Slowly, Mike nods, stepping forward on what looks like shaky legs and lowering himself into the chair, still staring at Stan with his wide eyes, something scary and beautiful glimmering in his gaze. Stan kind of wants to pretend Mike didn’t overhear him for a moment, wants to give himself a chance to collect his thoughts and piece together words before jumping into it, but Mike seems too caught up to wait, as he quickly asks, “Do you mean that? What you said?”

            Briefly, Stan wonders if he can shrink in on himself and disappear if he tries hard enough. He pushes that thought away, though, and straightens his shoulders with a deep breath to try and regain his composure. It’s hard not to be stifled by his nerves with the way Mike is looking at him, but he manages to choke out, “Yeah, I- I did. I do. That’s not exactly how I wanted to bring it up to you, but… yeah.”

            Mike smiles then, looking a little amused and a lot incredulous. “I was gonna try and talk to you about that. Not today, but soon. Beverly keeps calling me a pussy, so I was trying to think about when to bring it up, and _how_ , and…” he trails off, shaking his head with a little laugh. Stan parts his lips to respond, but nothing comes out, so he presses them back together and watches with some mild wonder as Mike leans his elbow on the table and props his chin in his palm. “I think I like this better, though,” he muses, and Stan sees a fondness in his eyes that makes his face heat up with a slight blush. Mike grins at him, fondness growing stronger, and adds, “It’s embarrassing for you, so it’ll be a lot more fun to tell others when they ask how we got together.”

            “Together?” Stan repeats, a little too soft for his liking. He kind of wants to tease back, to act offended and return the banter, but his mind gets caught on that word, and he kind of just… blinks at Mike, wide eyed and awestruck. And Mike still smiles, but a gentler smile, warmer.

            “Yeah,” Mike tells him. “Together. Like… boyfriends, you know? Like you said… you said you wanted to ask me…”

            Mike sounds a little less sure the farther his goes, and Stan’s nerves are burning in his veins, but he reaches over, takes Mike by the hand. “I do want to ask you,” he assures, kind of quiet with his fear. “I… I’ve just never done that before. I don’t know how to ask. I’m actually kind of scared to ask.”

            “Well, maybe you don’t have to ask then,” Mike tells him simply, turning his hand around to intertwine their fingers. Stan looks at their hands, appreciates the sight of it, then looks back up to meet Mike’s gaze as he adds, “Maybe I can just answer.”

            “What, uh…” Stan licks his lower lip nervously, takes a deep breath to ease his racing heart. “What would… what would your answer be, if I asked? What would you say?”

            And Mike grins again, squeezes Stan’s hand lovingly. “Yes. Obviously. I’d love to be your boyfriend, Stan.”

 

 

 

 

            By the time Richie makes it back to the dorm, Eddie is about ninety-nine percent done with his painting on the wall. At first, Richie doesn’t really look at it, only sees the red out of the corner of his eyes as he closes the door and tosses his bag onto his bed, but then he turns around and can’t help but gasp excitedly at what he sees. “Oh my god! Rocky Horror! Holy _shit,_ Eds!”

            Unlike when Stan came in, Eddie doesn’t damn near fall off the dresser he’s still sitting on top of, having heard when Richie opened the door and made his way inside. He does grin, though, and look over his shoulder to meet Richie’s wide-eyed gaze with a snicker. “Why am I not surprised that you’re a fan of Rocky? Like, not even a little bit. I kind of expected that, actually.”

            “A fan is an understatement,” Richie says, stepping forward and scanning over the still wet paint on the wall. Eddie hasn’t made anything abstract or complicated, really – only the signature red lips and the words **_Rocky Horror_** painted around it in somewhat squiggly letters. It looks almost professional, like it was made to be printed in an advertisement for the show. Richie shakes his head with a little laugh, wanting to reach out and graze his fingers over the art but knowing better than to touch wet paint. “Why are you painting this? I mean, is there a reason, or did you just feel like it?”

            “I dunno,” Eddie shrugs, setting his paintbrush down on the paper he set out to keep from paint getting on the dresser before plopping himself down to sit on it properly, legs dangling over the edge. “Some of the songs came on shuffle when I was sketching shit out earlier, and I guess I just wanted to make something from it, but none of my assignments can fit that. Plus, I haven’t painted anything in here other than that little ocean thing above my bed, so… I figured, why not, you know?”

            Richie hums, taking another moment to look over the art with appreciation before looking over to Eddie with a slight smile. “Well, it looks badass, so I’m definitely here for it.”

            And if Eddie feels a little smug about that, he tries his best not to show it, though he thinks it must be evident in the way he perks up if Richie’s sudden snicker is anything to go by. He doesn’t address that, though, instead pushing off the dresser and landing on his feet in one swift movement. As soon as he’s steadily standing, he spins back around the assess the painting slowly, trying to figure out what needs to be touched up and what’s yet to be done. For the most part, it’s pretty much complete, but there’s no harm in evening out the line or making it neater. Picking up his brush, Eddie leans in to start fixing up lips, absently offering, “You can help me with this, if you want.”

            “Oh, uh—” Richie takes a step back, shaking his head and smiling sheepishly. “That’s probably not a very good idea. I’d fuck it up, and it looks way too good to let me destroy it.”

            “As if,” Eddie snorts, though he doesn’t bother to look away from his work as he does so. “We were in intro to painting together, remember? I may have pretended you weren’t there the entire time, but I saw the work you turned in. You’re not bad. Not the best, sure, but not bad. I’m pretty confident that you can handle going over some black lines and making them look more even.”

            Richie hesitates, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as he thinks over Eddie’s words. That class had felt like the bane of his existence, but he has to admit that it was kind of calming, too. Painting isn’t his passion, not by a long shot, but when he forced himself to sit down and get something decent to turn in, he kind of enjoyed it. It also helped that the professor had been very understanding in him not actually being an art major and grading his work very leniently, landing him a solid B in the course by the end of the quarter. Even so, though, his mediocre ability to slap paint on a canvas is no where near Eddie’s ability to bring life to his work, which is why he takes another step back, murmuring, “I don’t know…”

            “Think of it this way,” Eddie quips, finishing up the outline of the lower lip before looking at Richie again. “You gave me a mini dance lesson, right? I’m just repaying the favor. Mini painting lesson, from me to you. I’ll even give you the easiest part, so you can’t fuck it up even if you tried.”

            He still seems kind of reluctant, but Richie smiles at that and shuffles forward, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows and half-heartedly shrugging. “Alright, fine. I guess I can’t argue that.”

            Eddie gestures to his bed, where his paintbrushes are all laid out. “I’m gonna guess you don’t know much about brush sizes and shit, but I have another one that looks just like the one I’m using, same size and everything, on the left there? Grab that one. It’ll be the easiest for going over the lines.”

            “Whatever you say, Boss,” Richie murmurs, making his way over to look at the assortment laying there. He winds up picking up three different brushes before getting the right one, but he doesn’t seem too embarrassed by it when he finally returns to Eddie’s side, looking a little timid and uncertain about what he’s doing. For a moment, he kind of just looks around, glancing at Eddie, at the little containers of paint on the dresser, at the painting, and back again. “Okay,” he finally says with a sigh, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously. “What am I doing?”

            “Just the outline for the letters,” Eddie tells him with a little grin, and Richie notices that there’s some paint smudged on Eddie’s cheek and the side of his jaw, but he just looks away and doesn’t point it out while Eddie gestures to the words on the wall. “I already did them, but all I’m doing is going over stuff right now, you know? Making the colors nicer and evening out the lines.”

            Richie’s lips quirk up slightly. “You kind of sound like Bob Ross,” he muses as he carefully dips the tip of his brush into the black paint, vaguely remembering from the intro class that too much on the brush can go wrong. Probably the only thing he can remember from it, but still helpful. “Only not at all,” he adds on, leaning in and throwing Eddie an amused look before carefully getting to work on the outline. “Just ‘cause Bob Ross is the human embodiment and calm, and you tend to yell and almost have as much energy as I do. But the painting thing is similar. So, kind of like Bob Ross, but barely.”

            Huffing out a light laugh, Eddie rolls his eyes and moves over a little to give Richie his space, starting on the upper lip of the painting as he half-heartedly defends, “I can be calm!”

            “Say that louder and with more energy,” Richie tells him. “Maybe then I’ll believe you.”

            With a scoff, Eddie turns his head to glare at Richie, withdrawing his brush and flicking it at Richie carefully, making sure to not sent paint flying everywhere but succeeding in landing a few red drops on the curve of Richie’s cheek. When Richie’s jaw drops, he barely manages to suppress a laugh, only saying, “Don’t be a dick, Tozier,” before turning forward and continuing to paint like nothing happened.

            “You’re so lucky that I don’t want to risk getting in trouble for getting paint all over the dorm,” Richie says through a laugh of his own, bringing up his free hand to wipe at the paint on him, which only succeeds in smearing it down to his jaw. “If I wasn’t already on thin ice with this school, you’d be dead.”

            “Oh, how threatening,” Eddie snickers, though he doesn’t let himself be distracted from his work this time, keeping his focus trained on the brush and where he’s painting. “I’m terrified.”

            Richie nods once, looking satisfied. “You should be. I’m very scary.”

            Eddie snorts at that, shaking his head slightly. “You may be tall, but you are not scary,” he says matter-of-factly. “Now shut your mouth and keep working.” He looks away from his own work then, scanning over the areas that Richie has already done and humming lightly in approval. “You’re doing good so far, by the way. Say what you will, but you’re not bad at painting.”

            “And you’re not bad at dancing,” Richie fires back, “but you’ve made it clear that you disagree.”

            “I’m not a dancer like you are,” Eddie deflects simply, not looking very bothered by the change in topic or the fact that they’re still talking despite him saying to be quiet. “I’m just being realistic. If we were in a dance off, you’d win. That’s just the truth and you can’t deny it.”

            “Maybe,” Richie relents, carefully shuffling around Eddie to get to the other letters that he can’t reach. “I still say you have the potential to be a great dancer, though. If you let me teach you some things, I have no doubt in my mind that you could double major art and dance, and kick ass at both of them.”

            Rolling his eyes again, Eddie murmurs, “Well, let’s agree to disagree, then,” as he finishes the last little bit of the upper lip. He takes a step back to appreciate it, then just watches as Richie slowly and carefully finishes up the letters. Once that’s done, they both look at it for a good minute, and Richie feels kind of proud for not somehow ruining the entire thing.

            Tearing his eyes away from the painting, Richie sets the brush he had been using on the same paper Eddie set his on, then tries to come off as casual as he asks, “So, how’d that talk with Stan go?”

            “He hasn’t already told you?” Eddie questions, cocking a brow at Richie as he starts putting his art supplies away, leaving the brushes where they art to wash in the bathroom in a few minutes.

            “No, he told me,” Richie tells him. “But I wanna hear your side of it, too.”

            Eddie ponders his response for a moment, sealing his paints and carefully placing them back in his art bag. Richie doesn’t push him to answer faster, rather making his way over to his bed and taking out his phone to pass the time as he waits. It’s not long of a way, as only a minute or two later, Eddie decidedly answers, “It was okay. We’re not, like, friends or anything, but I don’t think he hates me.”

            Not ideal, but better, Richie thinks. It’s also pretty much the same thing Stan told him, so he just nods once, pretty content with that answer, and tells Eddie, “You know, once Stan gets the stick out of his ass and you two are on good terms, I think I’m gonna bump you up a friendship level.”

            “Exciting,” Eddie says, only half-joking. “I’m still not sure you’re being serious with these level things, though, because I’ve never seen you mention them to anyone else.”

            Richie only shrugs. “That’s ‘cause I’ve never told anyone about them before.”

            “That’s doubtful,” Eddie snorts, not at all convinced. He leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest, and absently notices that he should probably take a shower to get the paint off his arms at some point tonight. “You tell Stan everything, don’t you? You’re just making it sound more and more like you’re just joking, but you also look super serious when you say it, so I can’t tell if you’re lying to me or, like, a _really_ fucking good actor.”

            “No lies here, my dear,” Richie assures him, even making a show of raising his hand and crossing his fingers, as if that action will assert his honesty. “It’s just always been this thing in my head that I’ve always done, but I never brought it up before. Not sure why I told you about it, to be honest, but not even Stan knows, which is the only reason he’s a level seven friend and not level eight. Consider yourself special, Eds. You know something about me that no one else knows.”

            For a long moment, Eddie doesn’t respond to that, kind of surprised by the information. When he does reply, it’s with a quiet little, “Oh,” as his brows pinch together and his lips tug down in a frown.

            Apparently sensing the change in Eddie’s demeanor, Richie looks away from his phone and meets his gaze from across the room. “What? Is that a bad thing? ‘Cause you can just pretend you don’t know about it if you don’t want to, I don’t mind—”

            “No, that’s fine,” Eddie interrupts, shaking his head. “I just feel like I should tell you something now, to make it even, or something, but I can’t choose what to say.” Instantly, Richie shakes his head, wanting to protest and insist that Eddie doesn’t need to tell him anything, but then Eddie hums and tells him, “Ask me something you want to know about me.”

            “Um.” Richie falters. He still wants to tell Eddie this isn’t necessary, but he also kind of wants to take the opportunity, too. He settles on the latter, only feeling a little guilty about it as he ponders what his question should be – should it be something super personal, or something more relaxed? Maybe in the middle somewhere, not too deep but not too shallow, either? To be honest, he’s not a very curious person, so he’s never really thought about things he wants to know about Eddie.

            Except for the fact that he kind of wants to know everything about Eddie, but that’s nothing new. He wants to know everything about all of his friends, but he’s never put the thought into specific questions or certain topics that he wants to know about. He’s just always kind of left it at everything. For a few seconds, he considers googling good questions to ask when getting to know someone, but he thinks that would just make the moment awkward, so he doesn’t.

            It takes a minute or so for him to land on something to ask, and when he does, he asks it kind of slow, worried that it might be a little too much. “What do you mean when you say you have no family?”

            Thankfully, Eddie doesn’t look pissed off by the choice in question, doesn’t even look too surprised by it. He only hums thoughtfully, considers his words, then decidedly answers, “Well, my dad died when I was twelve, and my mom was kind of… overbearing before that, but after his death, she became unbearable. She was manipulative, controlling, convincing me that I had all these illnesses and taking me to the doctor five times a week, convinced that I was developing cancer or that the spider bite on my arm was gonna kill me. I kind of always knew she was lying, because I was perfectly healthy growing up, but I guess I just wanted to hold onto the one parent I had left, so I let myself believe her until my doctor talked to me when I was seventeen and told me that there was nothing wrong with me. Which… isn’t really relevant, but I don’t really consider her family anymore because she’s not the mom I grew up with, and I’m honestly convinced that if I went back to Chicago to visit her, she’d find a way to keep me there and never let me leave.” He shrugs, unbothered, and concludes, “I guess I do have a family, ‘cause there are aunts and uncles out there that I talk to on Facebook sometimes, but… not, like, an actual family, you know? I just have some decent distant relatives and a mom that would rather lock me in a padded room than see me be happy and successful, so… yeah.”

            Richie doesn’t reply for that for a long time, and Eddie doesn’t seem to mind. “I, uh…” Richie trails off, shaking his head slightly. “That is… that really sucks. I’m so sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” Eddie tells him with a little smile, pushing off the dresser and scooping the used paintbrushes into his hands. “I’m here now, so it doesn’t matter. She can’t give me sugar pills from Chicago, and I can be who I am freely at Kenduskeag. It’s a win-win.”

            “I guess,” Richie starts, but he doesn’t get the chance to point out that being away from the source of trauma doesn’t make the trauma go away before Eddie is making his way into the bathroom to wash the brushes. His thoughts stay on the topic, though, mind muddled with the information Eddie told him, guilt forming into a hot ball in the pit of his stomach as he recalls the comments he made about Eddie’s family when the two of them had been at each other’s throats. When Eddie comes out of the bathroom a little while later, Richie doesn’t bring it up despite feeling like he should, and Eddie doesn’t mention it either, and the evening goes on as it normally does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is when things start getting interesting and all these hinted at secrets start to have some light shed on them. not all of them, but, you know. all in due time. you will see.
> 
> (also, for the asks and comments i've gotten abt why the fic is called paranoia: chapter seventeen. you'll find out in chapter seventeen.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is cute! until it isn't

            It’s not a date.

            It looks like a date, and it kind of feels like a date, but it’s definitely not a date, and Audra has been sure to voice that, like, thirty times since they arrived, reassuring them both. “Getting dinner together would be a date,” she explains, her gaze kind of flickering between everything around them and only landing on Beverly a small handful of times, the action nervous and a little bit endearing. “Because it’s Valentines Day, right? And getting dinner with someone on Valentines Day is inherently a romantic move. But this is lunch, which isn’t romantic, and isn’t a date like dinner would be. So, this is fine. It’s not crossing the line.”

            Beverly thinks she would be offended if she heard any other person say that, but her and Audra have a metaphorical line drawn in the sand that they haven’t stepped over yet, and she knows that Audra is trying to ease them both. “This is fine,” Beverly agrees, bringing up a breadstick and taking a bite that is probably a bit too large from it, her cheeks puffing out an unattractive amount due to how much food there is in her mouth. Audra’s gaze finally settles on her then, apparently feeling a bit more relaxed after hearing Beverly’s own assurance, and she looks ready to say something when she takes in the sight of Beverly’s chipmunk cheeks and the piece of breadstick hanging out of her mouth, and she promptly bursts into laughter instead, having to clap her hands over his lips to muffle the sound.

            Not exactly Beverly’s intention, but any chance to break the awkwardness, she’ll take.

            “I wouldn’t do this on a date,” Beverly says, though the words are muffled, crumbs spraying out with every syllable she struggles to enunciate through the bread. The action only makes Audra laugh harder, her face starting to go a little red and little snorts mixing into her laughter as she tries to make herself stop, which is what pushes Beverly over the edge and makes her laugh along.

            “Are you sure?” Audra asks through her uncontrollable bouts of giggles, her shoulders shaking as she barely manages to suppress whatever’s left of the cackles building up her in chest. There are several people looking over at them – people that clearly are on dates, though neither Audra nor Beverly point that out – but none of them seem particularly bothered as Audra muses, “I dunno… that’s kinda hot, Bev. Maybe you should pull that move on the next date you go on. It just might get you places.”

             Beverly snorts at that, which only succeeds is making her cough into her palm as the laughter causes her to nearly choke. _“Jesus,”_ she manages to rasp out once she’s got the food down, shaking her head to herself incredulously. “God, now I’m kind of glad this isn’t a date. That’s probably the most unattractive thing I’ve done in front of you.”

            Audra just shrugs, though, leaning her elbow on the table and propping her chin in her hand with a coy little smile, voice a tad bit softer as she says, “So, does that mean you wanted this to be a date? Before the whole choking on a breadstick thing?”

            “Well, yeah,” Beverly answers simply, tone lilted in a way to show how obvious of an answer she thinks it to be. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve been subtle about how I feel about you. We literally have a deal that we’re almost definitely gonna be dating each other once we’re done telling each other all our dark little secrets, you know? I kinda thought it was clear that I want this to be a date, even though I also totally get why it shouldn’t be considered one yet. Big emphasis on yet.”

            Huffing out another laugh, Audra leans back in her chair, picking up a breadstick of her own and absently tearing off a small piece of it to pop into her mouth, chewing on it absently as she takes a moment to ponder over Beverly’s response. “Speaking of our little deal,” she settles on saying after a few seconds, speaking a little slow, as if carefully thinking through each word before saying them. “How many more bullet points are on your list of secrets, do you think? Because, last I checked, I’m down to my last ten. And before you ask, yes, I made an actual list so I wouldn’t forget anything.”

            “I did, too!” Beverly tells her, almost sounding excited. She grins at Audra, fingers toying with the napkin on the table just to keep them occupied. “And I’m down to… eight, I think. Or…” she trails off slowly, brows twitching together in thought, before asking, “Did I tell you about why I moved in with my aunt? Like, the official thing that happened to make me move in with her?”

            “You hinted at it,” Audra says, “but it was getting late and you had to be up early to work on the music video thing that you’re doing, so you said you’d get to it later.”

            At that, Beverly nods and says, “I have nine left, then. I’ve been saving the big stuff for last.”

            Brows raising slightly, Audra pops another piece of her breadstick into her mouth and asks, “Does that mean the car accident you were in is considered small?”

            “Oh, honey, you have no clue,” Beverly snickers, gaze dancing around the room to see if their waiter is around – it’s only been a few minutes since they ordered their food, but the music video she’s directing for the Winter Final Show has been requiring a lot of early mornings for the right lighting and atmosphere, so she hasn’t had anything to eat together other than the quick bagel she had before leaving the dorm this morning and the coffee that Stan was kind enough to bring her when they met up at the shoot. She’s not surprised to see that their orders aren’t being carried their way yet, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling a little disheartened as she turns her attention back to Audra, only to find that Audra has already pushed the little basket of breadsticks closer to her with a small smile. Returning the smile with one of her own that she hopes conveys her gratitude, she picks up breadstick and goes on to say, “I’ve barely even touched on my family, other than my mom, and that’s just because my mom’s an asshole who did nothing but use me as a shield from her shitty husband and pretend it was the right thing to do. There’s not really a whole lot to say about her since her issue was that she never did anything.”

            Slowly, Audra nods, letting out a little half-sigh – the same noise she makes every time Beverly tells her something she’s gone through, a sad little noise paired with a heavy gaze and a sense of dread settling in her gut. She knew when they made this arrangement that Beverly had a lot to say, that Beverly had been through a lot – and Audra has been through a lot, too, but not the same kind of stuff – but knowing there was a lot and hearing how much there is are two different things. Not that hearing them changes how she thinks, but with every new thing she learns about Beverly, the more she wishes she had known Beverly sooner, just so she could have had to chance to offer her support when she was going through these things rather than just offering a comforting hand so long after they occurred.

            Beverly finishes her breadstick quickly, this time without the theatrics and the choking, and gives Audra a soft look when she’s done, quietly assuring her, “Don’t worry. It’s all in the past, and you already know that I don’t go back to see them when school’s out, so it’s not that bad. Just a little shitty.”

            “Wish it didn’t have to be shitty at all, though,” Audra sighs, though she smiles and nods once to show that she’s not going to get hung up on this if Beverly isn’t keen on talking about it right now. This is supposed to be a nice occasion, after all – they’re not on a date (technically), but it is Valentines Day and they’re choosing to spend their day together because they want to, and that’s something to enjoy.

            But Beverly’s mind lingers for a moment, and she almost says something else about it – what, she doesn’t know, but the unknown words at bubbling up in the back of her throat and she barely manages to swallow them back. Thankfully, the waiter comes before she can blurt out whatever it is she had been so close to saying, placing their plates on the table, and when Audra grins at her, she’s helpless to do anything but return the grin and soak in the warmth that comes with being in Audra’s presence.

            That warmth doesn’t dwindle the entirety of their lunch, which winds up dragging on for far too long, and even when they leave with their leftovers boxed up and their stomachs full, Beverly can’t stop her gaze from settling on Audra over and over again. It gets even worse when they get to Audra’s car and Beverly can’t find anything to distract, can’t focus her eyes anywhere else to make her brain drift to other things. She just… looks, a fond feeling in her chest, until Audra lets out a sigh and pulls into a parking lot in order to face her and ask, “Do I have something on my face or something?”

            “No, you’re just really pretty,” Beverly says before thinking, and once those words process in her brain, she finds the will to look away, her face burning in mild mortification at how blunt of a statement that is. Sure, she hasn’t been subtle, but that kind of thing might be a little too much for her to say – too soft of a sentiment to share so unabashedly on Valentines Day, when they’re supposed to be just friendly for now. It’s clear that Audra is caught off guard by that, too, as it takes a long moment before she’s able to blink herself back into reality.

            “Oh,” is all she gets out, in a soft whisper, a ghost of her voice.

            “Yeah,” Beverly murmurs, pointedly looking out the windshield and absently noticing that it’s oddly bright out for the middle of February in Oregon. She’s about to add something – an apology, maybe, or just a half-assed attempt at changing the subject – but she never gets the chance to choke it out before she feels Audra’s hand on the side of her face, turning her head and slotting their lips together.

            Instantly, Beverly gets lost in the kiss, leaning forward and clutching onto Audra’s shoulder like it’s a lifeline, her eyes fluttering shut and a content noise forming without her consent in the back of her throat. It takes a moment before her brain catches up, and when it does, she’s reluctant to pull away.

            Audra pouts when Beverly disconnects from her, and that is almost enough to make Beverly lean right back in, but she manages to push the urge away as she says, “We have- we have more, remember? More things to tell each other. The deal is—”

            “I kind of hate the deal,” Audra interrupts, bringing up her other hand to cup Beverly’s face in both of her palms, breathing out a laugh at the confused look on Beverly’s face. “Don’t get me wrong, I love learning more about you, and I want to hear everything else, but… Jesus Christ, Bev, unless you’re secretly a republican or something, there’s no way that whatever else is left on your list is gonna make me not want to kiss you.”

            That surprises a laugh out of Beverly, and she can’t help it, really, when she leans in and kisses Audra again, a brief little peck of a kiss that makes something wonderful swirl in her chest. “I’m not a republican,” she assures, sliding her hand from Audra’s shoulder up and around to rest on the back of her neck, fingers twisting into the loose strands of hair that have fallen from the braids that Audra has her hair in. She almost kisses Audra again, just because she wants to, but she manages to stop herself and ask, “Are you sure? Because I… I like to think I’m good, and that I don’t fall into these dark places anymore, and I don’t, usually, but they happen sometimes. Ask Mike and Bill, they’ve helped me through my slips since we started at Kenduskeag, and I’m scared that seeing me at such a low point…” she trails off, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t know. Me being at a low point isn’t something you should worry about, but I’ve lost some friends who thought I was too much to handle even though I never leaned on them for support, and I don’t think you’d do that, but it still just makes me… cautious, I guess.”

            “We all have low points,” Audra says, using her light hold on Beverly to bring her closer, until their noses are brushing and their forehead are leaning against each other. “Having low points isn’t a deal breaker. And if you ever want to lean on me for support during them, I’ll happily do whatever I can to help, but if you don’t want me to help, then that’s okay, too. I still want you, no matter what.” She cracks a smile then, one that’s a little sideways and teasing, as she says, “I’m not exactly subtle about how I feel either, Bev. This whole wanting to date thing? It’s definitely both ways, if that wasn’t obvious enough.”

            “It’s obvious,” Beverly snorts, shaking her head slightly, though the action in restricted by Audra’s hands still holding her face in the most gentle touch humanly possible, making her heard thud at the comfort the physical contact brings. Grinning wide and toothy, she takes a moment to pretend to consider her thoughts, humming lightly and clicking her tongue just to draw it out, before she gives in and kisses Audra again, only pulling back to say, “You know getting together on Valentines Day is a little cliché, right? Like, this is almost the exact plot to a romcom I saw once. Pretty sure Zac Efron was in it.”

            “Oh, well, we’re definitely hotter than Zac Efron,” Audra dismisses breezily, muffling Beverly’s snicker with another kiss, and this time, neither of them pull away.

 

 

 

 

            The sound of the piano drifts through the air in a heavenly way, gentle keys playing calming chords and a soft voice humming along as the music flows and resonates within the small space. Mike can’t decide where to look – at the piano, where Stan’s fingers are dancing over the keys with practiced precision, or at Stan himself, with a crease between his brows and complete concentration written on his features. He can’t tell what the song itself is, but he thinks he’d love any song so long as Stan is the one that’s playing it. The sight alone is absolutely memorizing.

            He doesn’t realize Stan has stopped playing until notices that their gazes have met, Stan’s lips tugged up into a slight smile. “What about that one?”

            Mike blinks slowly, feeling a little dumb. “Uh… what?”

            “The song I’m gonna teach you to play,” Stan explains, amusement written clear on his face as realization dawns on Mike’s features. “Is that one good, or do you want to hear some other options?”  
            “Oh,” Mike murmurs, glancing away in mild embarrassment, though his gaze is magnetized back to Stan a mere three seconds later. His stomach clenches and his heart flutters a bit when he sees the softness in Stan’s eyes, and he almost stumbles over his words when he says, “Any of the ones you just played. They’re all beautiful, and, uh… they all sound really complicated, so…”

            Stan huffs out a laugh, turning his attention back to the piano with a slight smile as he assures, “They’re not too hard. I picked them out because they sound really advanced but are pretty easy to learn.” Flashing a grin toward Mike, he leans over to nudge their shoulders together and adds, “They’re the ones I learned in middle school to make all the kids think I was cooler than I really was.”

            “You don’t need to know piano to be cool,” Mike points out. “It’s just, like, a bonus, or something. I think you’re cool without all the music stuff.”

            “Music stuff?” Stan repeats with a snicker, his finger absently skating over the piano keys to play some kind of tune, a simple yet pleasant one that fades into the background as he speaks. “Mike, this music stuff is, like, at least fifty percent of who I am. I can’t be cool without it because I don’t exist without it. Besides, you’re just saying that because it’s Valentines Day and you’re my boyfriend.”

            Not looking (or feeling) the slightest bit ashamed by that, Mike merely shrugs and says, “Maybe a little, but I mean it. Musician or not, you’re pretty incredible, Uris. And today is the day that I’m legally allowed, some might even say _required,_ to be as gross and cliché as I want, and you can’t stop me.”

            Then, as if to solidify his point, he sticks his tongue out at Stan childishly, and relishes in the way it makes Stan snort in response. He looks at Mike with an unimpressed expression, but it’s clearly forced, as the ends of his lips twitch up into a grin that he can’t even attempt to bite back, though he does try to deflect it by changing the subject and saying, “Just pick a damn song, Hanlon. We’re only here until two, and I really do want to try and teach you this. Or part of it, anyway.” Raising a hand to point an accusing finger at Mike, effectively silencing the song he’s been tapping out, he adds, “And it was your idea to make our little activities relate to our majors, so it’s your fault that you’re learning anything in the first place. That means I better not hear a single complaint out of you until it’s time for us to go do whatever you have planned after this. You signed up for this.”

            “I did,” Mike nods in agreement, squaring his shoulders and taking a slow breath, as if preparing himself to march into war. “The last one you just played. That’s my choice.” Poising his hands in front of him, feeling a little awkward and out of his element while doing so, he glances over to Stan and says, “I can’t promise I’ll be good at this, but I’ll do my best. Show me your magic, music man.”

            Stan rolls his eyes, but looks pleased to finally be making some progress on this, his features pinching together in concentration as he faces the keys and moves Mike’s hands into position for the first chord, softly instruction him on technique and style and the easiest way to make the music flow. As expected, Mike fumbles as he tries to repeat what he’s being taught, but Stan is patient and encouraging through every step, repeating what he’s asked to and nodding along when Mike gets it right. In the studio they’re in – the school is small enough that each music student has their own, as there’s only a couple dozen kids who actually use them, meaning that Stan’s the only person who’s been using this space since the school year started – the sound reverberates around them, sounding even more melodical than it already does. They don’t even realize how much time has gone by until Mike’s phone is going off with an alarm, and they’re both shocked to find that it’s already two in the afternoon.

            Turning the alarm off, Mike looks to Stan, who seems pretty content with the state of things, and asks, “How far did we get? Was it at least half of the song?”

            “Almost the whole thing, actually,” Stan tells him, bringing down to cover for the piano keys and pushing himself to his feet. “Another half hour and I’d say you’d have the whole thing down.”

            “Really?” Mike can’t help but feel mildly surprised by that. Part of him wants to suggest cutting back time for what he has planned just to fit that half hour in, but Stan seems to sense his thoughts before he can voice them, as he’s already shaking his head and grabbing Mike by the hand to tug him to his feet. As much as he would love to stay, that action reminds him of what they have planned, and he nods with a slight sigh. “Right,” he murmurs, “Yeah. Okay.”

            Stan smiles, brows raised slightly. “My part’s done. What’s your surprise?”

            Pursing his lips, Mike squints at him, considers his options, and then decidedly answers, “You’ll find out when we get there. But we will need to use your car. And I need to stop by my dorm to grab my best camera, because I forgot to grab it before we came over here.”

            “So, we’re using my car, and I don’t get to know where we’re going?” Stan questions with a laugh, though he doesn’t sound particularly bothered by that as Mike leads them out of the studio, only pausing long enough for Stan to lock the door behind them before continuing their journey to the dorms. “Okay, fine, but I’m driving. I trust you, but no one else is allowed behind the wheel of my car.”

            “Deal,” Mike agrees, nodding his head once and digging in his pocket for his dorm key.

            The drive itself is fairly pleasant, if not a little longer than Stan was anticipating. It takes almost thirty minutes until Mike is pointing to a parking lot, and Stan doesn’t even have time to realize that they’ve gone to the far outskirts of Kenduskeag Valley before he’s reading the sign a few feet away from where he parks, brows pinching together. “A park?” he asks, a little confused.

            “A _beautiful_ park,” Mike corrects, unzipping the backpack he had grabbed from his dorm and pulling out two fairly thick sweatshirts and his camera. Holding out of the sweatshirts out to Stan as an offer, Mike adds, “A park that I think is perfect for a Valentines Day photoshoot. And a lesson in photography from me to you. Apparently, when we decided to make sure our surprises had to do with our art, we both went down the same path of ideas, but…” Mike shrugs. “I dunno. It’ll be fun.”

            “And it’s a good way to get some cute ass pictures,” Stan points out, accepting the offered sweatshirt and quickly slipping it on over his outfit, letting the warm material drown him and leaving his hair a little mussed by the action of pulling it on. The sight is so endearing that Mike almost audibly coos, but barely manages to muffle it as he pulls on his own sweatshirt. When he looks back at Stan, he’s watching him with so much fondness in his eyes that he has to look away, and the softer edge to Stan’s voice is audible when he says, “Plus, taking pictures is a good way to pass time until dinner.”

            Mike nods once, sinks his teeth into his lower lips as he grins and reaches for the door handle. “Exactly. My main motive is to get some really cute pictures of you, though.”

            “Very romantic,” Stan snorts, taking the keys out of the ignition and following Mike’s lead as they climb out of the car, locking the doors once they’re closed. Instead of responding, Mike turns his camera on and doesn’t bother to mess with the setting before lifting it up and snapping a quick picture of Stan, making him splutter slightly when the flash goes off and he hears the shutter. “That’s not fair!” he complains, though he doesn’t look actually upset by the action, instead just mildly flustered and unsure of how to respond. He eventually just pouts dramatically – Mike knows that Stan claims Richie is the immature one between them, but he can definitely see the childish similarities between the two, which only serves to prove just how close they are and how alike they act despite being so vastly different in various other aspects – and even goes as far as to glare at Mike when he says, “I wasn’t even ready.”

            “Then pose,” Mike shrugs, holding up the camera again, though he doesn’t actually take another picture, rather just watching as Stan immediately lifts a hand to flip him off with his glare still in place, though his pout lessens quickly and turns into a little smile instead. Unable to help it, Mike does take a second photo, just because it’s too good of a shot to waste, before lowering his camera with a toothy grin. “Don’t look so glum, babe. You get the camera as soon as I give you a crash course of photography.”

            Crossing his arms over his chest with an overdramatic huff, Stan sticks his chin in the air and says, “Fine,” before spinning on his heel and marching towards the entryway of the park, a sense of determination in his posture even as a giddy smile plays at his lips.

            Mike takes another picture of him, just because he can, before following after.

            Like Mike did with the song, it takes a little bit of explaining before Stan gets a grip on the basic functions of Mike’s camera, learning how to adjust the settings without relying on auto mode, and wastes no time on putting the quick lesson to use, instructing Mike to, “Walk around and look all natural and cute,” while he trails after him with the camera in hand. Most of the shots he gets are definitely more simple, not playing towards lighting and the focus being a little off in certain places, but it’s clear that he’s trying to use what he’s been told about to the best of his ability, sometimes telling Mike to stay completely still in order for him to find the right angle and make it as close to professional looking as he possibly can. Every time he gets a photo that he’s particularly proud of, he immediately swivels the camera around to show it to Mike with a wide grin and a giddy little laugh.

            As hoped, Mike does take the camera back to get more pictures of Stan, too, though he doesn’t do so until about fourty-five minutes into this little adventure. By this point, the tips of Stan’s ears and the slope of his nose are a little cold bitten and red, and his cheeks burn slightly at the attention to detail that Mike puts in, spending a solid two or three minutes adjusting his position and the settings before getting the perfect shot. “It’s necessary,” Mike promises, but when Stan starts to shift from foot to foot uncomfortably, he stops caring about the details and reminds himself that any picture of Stan is a good picture of Stan. After that, he doesn’t . After that, he doesn’t take much longer to hand the camera back to Stan and let him have his fun, running around the park and taking pictures of everything excitedly – mostly pictures of Mike, not that Mike is going to complain. As the photographer, he finds it refreshing to be on the other end of the camera lens. Plus, being the center of Stan’s attention never fails to make him feel warm and fuzzy and nice, so he just soaks it up while he can.

            Unfortunately – or, in a sense, fortunately – time goes by faster than they assumed it would, and soon enough, Stan’s phone is going off with a reminder to head towards the restaurant they made reservations at. He frowns slightly when it does, lowering the camera and digging his phone out of his pocket to quiet the beeping, then looking to Mike with raised brows, as if surprised to see that their time is already up. Mike can share that sentiment.

            “Time flies when you’re having fun, right?” is what Mike says, holding a hand out to take the camera from Stan, only to switch it to his other hand and intertwine their fingers with a smile. “We can take more pictures later.”

            “I hope so,” Stan murmurs, walking alongside Mike through the park, towards the parking lot. “That was really fun. I mean, photography isn’t my thing, but it was fun. I wanna do more of it.” He pauses for a moment, considers something in his mind, then adds, “It could just be that I like taking pictures of you, though. That’s a pretty big possibility. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s all it is.”

            Laughing lightly, Mike guides the way through the gate of the park and leads them to Stan’s car, only stopping when he reaches the passenger side door. Stan keeps walking, clearly intending to make his way around the vehicle and get behind the wheel, but Mike keeps their hands linked and tugs him back slightly when he tries. Clearly surprised, Stan looks at him curiously, but before he can ask, Mike pulls him even closer and seals their lips together in a sweet kiss, a bit brisk but still pleasant.

            When Stan leans back, it’s with a dazed little grin and something wonderfully bright in his eyes, like he just can’t comprehend the feeling that comes from this – the way his heart jumps and his chest warms, the way his stomach twists and gut clenches. Like he’ll never get used to how good it is to be with Mike but doesn’t really mind how every kiss feels like the first.

            “I know I’m a good kisser and all,” Mike teases, watching as his voice shocks Stan back into reality, his eyelashes fluttering as he blinks himself out of his daze, “but if we don’t leave in the next, like, two minutes, we might end up late. Which isn’t really a big deal, because the restaurant we’re going to holds tables for an extra thirty minutes just in case, but still.”

            “Yeah,” Stan says, shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts, a bashful smile playing at his lips. The smile turns more teasing as he releases Mike’s hand and makes his way to the driver’s side of the car, calling over his shoulder, “It’s not my fault that you like to distract me, though!”

            Mike grins, shrugging his shoulders unapologetically. “No, that’s my fault, and I’m proud of it.”

            “Of course you are,” Stan chuckles, taking his keys out of his pocket in order to unlock the doors. He looks up with an amused expression, parting his lips to say something else – something a little witty but a little fond, a little funny but a little soft – when the sound of his phone ringing cuts him off, drawing his attention away from the conversation.

            Instantly, Mike recognizes the ringtone – Stan has a different one for Richie, for reasons that he won’t explain to Mike, reasons that no one really knows other than those two. And he recognizes the look in Stan’s eyes the moment it goes off, the millisecond of panic followed by a large exhale, as if he’s mentally reminding himself that the panic isn’t necessary, though he still digs his phone out of his pocket in a haste, wasting no time before answering the call and bringing the phone to his ear.

            And as soon as the call goes through, Mike hears the faintest noise from the other end of the line, difficult to pick up from where he’s standing and almost swept away in the light February breeze, but he’s almost certain he knows what it is.

            He’s almost certain that he hears a sob.

 

 

 

 

            Bill’s reasoning for why it isn’t weird to be spending a romantic holiday alone with one of his friends is that they spend time together every day. And it’s not like either of them have anyone else to spend it with, either, so there’s no point in analyzing the situation. In his mind, it makes sense.

            That doesn’t stop it from feeling a little weird, a little different and strange, as him and Ben sit on opposite sides of the couch and scroll through their options for movies, fresh cups of apple cider waiting on the coffee table with steam rising from the mugs. It’s usually pretty quiet between them, neither of them feeling particularly chatty and normally choosing the relax into a comfortable silence, any conversations that may occur often soft spoken and gentle enough as to not disturb the peace. This quiet isn’t as comfortable, however – it’s not uncomfortable, because Bill doesn’t think he’s quite capable of feeling uncomfortable around Ben, but it isn’t as relaxed, isn’t the same as it normally is.

            Not that anything has really been the same since the events that occurred over winter break, but Bill’s been adamantly avoiding those thoughts, trying to focus on his classes and his writing and his friends, knowing that letting himself fall apart completely would only succeed in ruining his future.

            “We should wuh-watch that one,” Bill says, pointing at the TV with one hand as Ben scrolls through the wide array of shows and movies displayed on screen. They’d both pointedly avoided to romantic category when Netflix loaded up, advertised for the couples looking for something to watch on their dates (that pretty obviously lead to not really watching whatever they put on), and have been aimlessly searching for anything that might catch their eye for the past five minutes. Ben freezes, looks over at Bill in question, leading Bill to lean forward slightly, like that will make it more clear what he’s pointing at, and explain, “Go up a l-luh-little. I saw The Bruh-Breakfast Club.”

            “I love that movie!” Ben grins, already scrolling back up to find the film in question before setting the remote on the coffee table, picking up his mug of cider, and settling back against the sofa cushions with a content little smile. Bill follows his lead, taking his own mug in hand and getting comfortable, eyes trained on the TV and legs curling up into his chest. Much quieter, clearly not wanting to talk over the movie, Ben says, “I haven’t seen this since I was in middle school.”

            Bill hums, though he makes a point to swallow back the urge to ramble on about the last time he watched this – at a family gathering, a few summers back. It’s a pretty nice story, really, but it’s come to Bill’s attention that he’s been unintentionally unloading his life story onto Ben bit by bit. He’s not even sure how it started, but every time they’re together, sitting in each other’s company like this, he finds himself opening up about things he hasn’t even thought of in years. The words just… flow out of him, as easy as air, and Ben always listens, looking happy to hear all these pieces of information about him, like he could sit there for hours and listen to nothing but Bill talk and be perfectly content.

            The opening up thing, Bill isn’t against. It’s good for him, he thinks, but he’s scared of opening up too much, of shining a light on things he wants to keep hidden in the dark. That’s never been an issue before, accidentally saying too much, revealing the things he doesn’t want to be revealed. Usually, he knows when to stop talking, knows how to shut up and keep things a secret, but…

            Maybe it’s because of what happened. Maybe it’s just because Ben makes him feel oddly safe. He doesn’t know why, but he does know that he needs to be careful of what he says, before he reaches a point of no return and tells Ben about the things that not even Mike or Beverly know about.

            Apparently, Ben has become as accustomed to hearing Bill talk about his past as Bill has to talking about it, because it only takes a few minutes of quiet before he’s shifting slightly, turning his gaze to Bill with his brows drawn together slightly. Bill isn’t always talkative, he knows, but something feels a little different – and not just because of the fact that it’s Valentines Day and they’re sitting here together. It feels different because he can practically see Bill swallowing back his words.

            And he thinks that maybe, if Bill doesn’t want to tell him a story, Ben can do it instead.

            “I watched this with my cousins,” Ben starts, still keeping his tone soft, easy to tune out, just in case Bill isn’t feeling to keen on hearing him talk. As soon as he gets out the first word, however, Bill is looking at him, eyes a little wider than usual, and the movie is suddenly just background noise as Ben looks down at his apple cider and saying, “They’re not really nice, my cousins. They always picked fights with me, made fun of me when we were kids. It wasn’t all that bad because I didn’t have to see them that often, but then my dad died, and with just my moms paycheck, we couldn’t afford the house we were in. So, we moved in with my aunt, and the cousins that doubled as my own personal bullies lived right down the hall, and I couldn’t really get away from them.”

            Bill tightens his hold on his mug of cider, to the point of his knuckles turning white, and he almost wants to speak up, to say something kind and comforting, but he doesn’t know what would be best, so he opts to bite his tongue and nod once to show that he’s listening.

            “They’re not, like, the worst people,” Ben goes on, glancing up to meet Bill’s gaze before quickly looking away, as if afraid to maintain eye contact. “They’re just… not the best. I got used to it pretty quickly, though, having to live with them. By the time I got to high school, I kind of just stopped caring about what they said, especially since I couldn’t defend myself without my aunt threatening to kick us out. But, uh- the thing that really made me stop caring about what they thought was what they said about this movie.” He uses his mug to gesture towards the TV, where Richard Vernon is currently assigning John Bender a handful of more detentions. “It’s a good movie, and it’s a classic, but the entire time we were watching it, they were talking about how horrible it is, pointing out all the cliché’s and the mistakes and things that they just didn’t like about it. I kept telling them that they shouldn’t be so harsh on it, that it was made in the eighties and is gonna have it’s downsides, you know? And I said that it’s a good movie no matter how old it is, or the visual quality, the audio quality, because of the story. It’s a good story, and it says a lot, and it taught me a lot as a kid, and I think it’s important. But they just didn’t listen.”

            “They sound like p-pruh-pricks,” Bill states matter-of-factly.

            Ben snorts at that, nodding in agreement as he looks up at Bill with a wide grin. “Oh, they are,” he says, sounding almost businesslike as he cocks an eyebrow. ““Unless you ask anyone other than me and my mom. All my aunts, my uncles, grandparents? Oh, you ask them, and my cousins are absolute _angels_ while _I’m_ the idiot who’s out of place in the family. Too big, not smart enough, needs to do more, do _better._ God, I got so much shit about applying to this school, you know that? My mom was so excited that she cried, but at Christmas dinner, when everyone came over, everyone told me that I should look into more realistic options, something practical, because writing and poetry won’t get me anywhere, apparently.” He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and taking a long drink of his cider, looking like he wishes there was something else in his mug, but when he lowers it again, he’s still smiling.

            For a moment, Bill says nothing, only looks, and it’s the first time that he thinks there’s more to Ben than he first assumed. It shouldn’t be a shocking realization, because he knows, logically, that there’s always more to a person than what meets the eye, but Ben always appears so bright, even if he had been shy at first, even if he’s still a bit more quiet than the rest of them. He’s always smiling, always offering comfort, always doing what he can to make others happy.

            And Bill wonders who’s there to offer comfort to Ben. He wonders if there’s anyone who does.

            “If it makes you feel better,” Bill says slowly, choosing his words carefully, “I think your poetry is… really fucking good. And I think you’re gonna do amazing things with it. You family has got to be really stupid if they don’t see that.”

            The genuine surprise on Ben’s face is a little endearing, but it’s a little heartbreaking, too, the idea that he doesn’t expect to be complimented on his work, like the thought of someone thinking he’s doing good is hard to believe. “Thanks,” is all he manages to murmur in response, looking at Bill in an almost wary manor, as if he’s searching for a sign that Bill’s lying, only to smile to himself in some kind of pride, clearly content to find no hint of a lie written on Bill’s face. “You know,” he says, “that’s the first time you’ve said something without stuttering since winter break ended.”

            He points it out in a genuine way, not a curious way – he looks even more proud, but this time not of himself, rather proud of Bill, like the lack of a stutter is a good sign. Bill supposes it is, and all he does is smile a little, too, and reply, “I’m surprised you nuh-noticed. It’s been over a month.”

            “Of course I noticed,” Ben tells him, waving a hand dismissively. “You told me and Stan about your stutter around Thanksgiving, and I remember you saying it only comes back when something’s wrong. That, plus the state you were in when I came over looking for Mike, is enough for me to know that you’ve been dealing with something. You already told me you didn’t want to talk about it when I first asked, though, so I’ve been paying attention to your stutter. I know you’re having a bad day if it gets worse, and on days like today, when you only stutter once or twice when you’re talking, I know you’re feeling mostly okay. Maybe not like before winter break, but still okay.”

            Now it’s Bill’s turn to look surprised, his jaw dropping slightly in shock as he stares at Ben with somewhat wide eyes. He can’t recall a time when anyone has paid that much attention to him – to the small details, the way he behaves. All this time, he thought Ben was just offering a comforting presence, listening to Bill talk because he thought it made Bill feel better, being a good friend, but the fact that Ben’s been doing all that and more…

            Mike and Beverly are his best friends, he knows this, knows that they’ll always be closer to him than any other friend he might have, but he can’t see either of them paying this much attention to him, knowing something as miniscule as how to tell if he’s having a good day or a bad day based on how much he stutters. Does that make Ben his closest friend now? Or does that just mean that Ben is more observant that their other friends, able to detect these kinds of things?

            Either way, the only response Bill can think to give is, “I think you deserve a family that suh-supports you and b-buh-believes in you, but I’m glad you have a good mom that d-does.”

            “I have a supportive family,” Ben shrugs, scooting over so that they’re sitting side by side rather than on the opposite ends of the couch, just so he can nudge their shoulders together with a grin. “I have you guys,” he goes on simply, turning his attention back to the screen – somehow, over the course of this conversation, the movie has progressed to the breakfast club’s escapade down the halls, just before Bender runs off to cause a distraction in order for everyone else to make it back to the library without getting caught. With a smaller smile playing at his lips, he concludes, “That’s family enough for me.”

            Slowly, Bill nods, sporting a smile of his own as he looks at the TV. He thinks that Ben might have a point, one that he never really considered. Maybe he has a family here.

            Maybe this family is all that he really needs.

 

 

 

 

            It’s when he’s outside of his dorm room, about to go inside, that Eddie hears it.

            He can’t really tell what it is at first, just a strange, muffled noise coming from the other side of the door that’s almost impossible to identify. For a moment, he considers just ignoring it and going in despite the sound, but the last time he did that was on Halloween, and while him and Richie are friends now, unlike then, he’d rather not be as caught off guard as he did when he walked in on a performance of Cell Block Tango that he hadn’t been expecting. Because of this, he pauses for a moment, his hand poised over the door knob, and presses his ear against the wood to get a better listen. Again, he hears the noise, only a little more clear, likely still muffled by something else, followed by an incoherent murmur that he can detect is Richie’s voice. Halfway through the murmur, something changes – he thinks that Richie might have has his face in his hands or something, because suddenly his voice is clear, words crisp in the air as he says, “—but you know what happens when they do this, Stan!”

            The noise happens again, only this time it’s just as clear as those words, and Eddie is more than a little surprised to find that what he’s hearing is a gut-wrenching sob.

            “No, I- I know,” Richie says, and Eddie can now tell that his words are uneven and wobbly, his voice thick and interrupted by the occasional sniffle. “I don’t want you to leave your date, I’m not asking you to, I swear, I just- I’m trying to figure out what else to do, okay? The next bus going to Witcham doesn’t leave for an hour, and it already takes an hour and a half to get there, and—”

            Richie cuts off with another sob. Swallowing thickly, Eddie carefully turns the door knob, moving as slow as possible to push the door open and reveal the scene within the room. He doesn’t open it fully, not wanting to startle Richie with his presence, but he opens it enough to see that Richie is pacing the floor by his bed, one hand holding his phone to his ear and the other tugging on his own hair like he needs the slight sting to keep him grounded. His head in angled down, but he occasionally glances up at the ceiling, and in those moments, Eddie can see how red and blotchy his face is, eyes bloodshot and cheeks shining with tears that drip from his chin. The sight makes Eddie’s throat close, and he almost barges in just to offer some kind of comfort, but his curiosity and his nosiness has him stay where he is.

            Coming to a stop by the window, his back facing Eddie, Richie speaks again. “I don’t know what happened,” he murmurs, moving his free hand out of his hair and using it to rub at the back of his neck. “I just got a call from my dad, and he said that I need to get home as fast as possible.” He pauses for a moment, listens to what Stan is saying, and lets out a long sigh as he responds with, “No, I know it shouldn’t be my responsibility, you don’t have to remind me, but if I can get there and I can help, then that’s what I’m gonna do. There’s no way I’m gonna sit here and do nothing knowing that something’s happening and I’m not even there for it.” Another pause. This time, Eddie can faintly hear the sound of Stan’s voice coming from the speaker of the phone, though what he’s saying is impossible to decipher. It’s not hard to guess, though, as Richie quickly shakes his head and insists, “I’m not letting you skip out on your dinner date just to help me deal with family problems! If it’s not supposed to be my responsibility, then it _definitely_ isn’t supposed to be yours.”

            Eddie pushes the door open a little bit more, shuffling forward until he’s toeing at the line of carpet in the doorway. His curiosity is still thriving in the back of his mind, a natural nosiness that’s always whispering to him and making him want to know more, but above that is a wave of uncertainties and ideas – he may not know the situation fully, but from what he can tell, the problem at hand is that Richie needs to get to Witcham, and he needs to get there as soon as possible. Maybe Eddie isn’t supposed to know that, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to think of a solution.

            Faintly, he realizes Richie is talking some more – something else about Witcham, and a name he doesn’t recognize – but he doesn’t focus on it, instead scrambling to come up with some sort of idea. He isn’t really sure how the busses work here, but maybe there’s one that goes halfway to Witcham that leaves sooner, where Richie could hop onto another bus to finish the trip? Hell, Eddie has his license, thanks to his mother not paying close attention when he asked to have a permission form signed for a field trip that didn’t exist, getting her signature of consent for him to take drivers ed with the money he had saved up. If he had his own car, he’d offer to drive Richie himself, but… actually… _oh._

            He may not have his own car, but Beverly has one, and with a quick phone call and a promise to be safe, he’s almost certain she’d let him use it. _Especially_ if it’s to help Richie.

            “If I don’t find a way there,” Richie is saying when Eddie tunes back in, his voice borderline hysterical and his hand visibly trembling where it’s still resting against the back of his neck, “I’m going to lose my mind. I… I need to be there, Stan. I don’t know what’ll happen if—”

            “I’ll take you.”

            Eddie doesn’t even realize he’s actually spoken until Richie whips around to look at him with wide, unblinking eyes, the redness of them even more obvious when magnified by his glasses. The sight of him is even more painful to take in when he’s not moving around, but Eddie doesn’t linger on that long as Richie gapes at him in surprise, mouth opening and closing a few times before he chokes out, “What?”

            Feeling a little timid, Eddie makes his way into the room completely, shutting the door behind him and trying not to show how nervous he feels as he repeats, “I’ll take you.” Then, pointedly averting his gaze to the side, he explains, “I have my license, and I can ask to use Beverly’s car. Plus, it’s not like I have any other plans today, and you clearly need a ride, so… I can do it.”

            Stan’s voice is barely audible through Richie’s phone, but he must have given specific instructions, as Richie is quickly pulling back the device and putting it on speaker. He barely manages to murmur a quiet little _done_ before Stan is saying, “You better not be fucking around, Kaspbrak.”

            “I’m not,” Eddie promises instantly, stepping forward and tossing the sketch book he was using for his portrait class onto his bed, holding his hands up in some kind of surrender despite the fact that Stan can’t see him. “You said I had to build trust, right? Let me do that. If I can help, I want to help.”

            In the background of Stan’s call, he hears Mike’s voice. Richie must hear it, too, because the shock from Eddie’s presence immediately transforms into a wince of guilt, as if being reminded of the fact that he’s interrupting Stan’s plans is physically painful to him. Stan lets out a shaky breath, his uncertainty audible in the way it wavers, before he asks, “Does that work for you, Richie? It’s a way to get to Witcham faster than the busses. I don’t know if I like it, but it works, and it’s up to you.”

            For a long moment, Richie looks at Eddie, his eyes brewing with a mixture of wariness and hope and something else, and all Eddie can do is hope that his sincerity is evident. They’re in a better place now, have been since December, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Richie didn’t trust him with this, if Richie didn’t want Eddie to see his home, to get a glimpse at his life outside of Kenduskeag. He’s about to offer another idea, to say that maybe Beverly is available to take him herself, but then Richie lets out a long breath and nods once, the action curt and quick, before he answers, “Yeah. Yeah, that- that works.”

            “Okay,” Stan breathes, sounding just as stressed as before, if not a little more, and Eddie thinks that whatever this is has to be close to home for Stan, too. Him and Richie grew up together, after all – if this, whatever it is, has to do with Richie’s family, then that means these are people that Stan knows, that Stan is probably close to. It’s no wonder that Stan seemed to be insisting on leaving his date with Mike to get Richie home, but if Eddie remembers correctly, the restaurant they made reservations at is at least half an hour away. Waiting for Stan to get back to Kenduskeag just to pick up Richie and go might have been too long, not to mention that Mike, while understanding and kind, probably would have been a little bit disappointed to have his date cut off early when they had so much planned.

            Eddie almost asks where Stan is, just to pick him up on the way and drive both of them to Witcham, but Richie made it clear that he didn’t want Stan leaving his date early, so he keeps the question shoved down and instead tells Richie, “I’m gonna call Bev, okay? She’s spending the afternoon with Audra in their dorm, so I know she’ll let me use her car, but I have to ask and go get the keys.”

            Richie nods again, just as curt and quick, and stands stock still as Eddie back out of their dorm with his phone in hand, Beverly’s contact already pulled up by the time the door closes behind him. As expected, the call quickly goes through and Beverly answers with a chirpy little, “Hey, Ed!”

            Without waiting, Eddie gets right to the point, explaining what he can of the situation – just the fact that Richie needs a ride to Witcham right now, and Eddie needs to borrow Beverly’s car to give him the ride – and it’s as he’s explaining this that Eddie wonders what, exactly, he’s just gotten himself into, and he thinks that a lot of questions he’s had since meeting Richie Tozier are now only a couple hours away from being answered. And he wonders, with a sliver of fear in his chest, if the answers he’s gonna get are going to be good, or if they’re going to be very, _very_ bad.

            A quick jog to Beverly’s dorm and a sprint back to his own is all it takes before he’s facing Richie again, who still has a steady trickle of tears rolling down his blotchy cheeks and has yet to end the phone call with Stan, and Eddie thinks the answers don’t matter. What matters is that he has a friend, someone he wants to consider a really good friend, and that friend needs him, and he’s going to do everything he can to help. If that means driving Richie to Witcham and then sitting in the car for a few hours while Richie does whatever it is he needs to do, then that’s what’s gonna happen.

            Whatever it takes.

            “I’m ready to go if you are,” Eddie says, holding up Beverly’s car keys in one hand and clutching the door knob in a white-knuckled grip in the other. Richie blinks at him slowly, looking a little bit dazed and not at all like the Richie that Eddie’s come to know. In fact, now that Eddie is thinking about it, Richie looks a lot like he did when they were dancing in this very room, and that song had been playing, and every sign of Richie’s personality had seemingly drained from him for a few short moments. It had been kind of scary, seeing Richie in such an odd state, but this is worse. Seeing Richie like this aches in a way he can’t quite explain. In a way that makes him kind of want to cry, too.

            “Keep me updated,” Stan instructs through the phone, his voice leaving no room for argument.

            Richie nods again, sniffles once and wipes at his cheeks. “I will.”

            “And drive safe, Kaspbrak. If you two get in an accident, I swear to god I’ll—”

            “Stan,” Richie interrupts, his voice breaking halfway through, lower lip trembling slightly, the sight heartbreaking to an entirely new degree. “Don’t do that. Not right now, okay?”

            It goes quiet for a moment. Eddie swallows roughly, sucks in a harsh breath, and then softly reassures, “I’ll get us there safe, Stan. I promise. You don’t have to worry.”

            Stan kind of laughs, a little humorless laugh, and murmurs, “I always worry.” He clears his throat as soon as the words are out, then lets out a quiet sigh. “Okay. I… I’ll take your word for it, okay? Just go. Get there as fast as you can, but get there safely.”

            “Cross my heart,” Eddie says. “I’m gonna do everything I can.”

            “Good,” Stan replies. They can’t see him, but his nod is practically audible. “I love you, Rich. Everything’s gonna be fine, okay? Now, seriously, you need to get going. You know how long of a drive it is.”

            Richie murmurs a quiet _I love you, too,_ before ending the call, but it still takes a moment before he moves even after he’s stuffed his phone in his pocket. Eddie doesn’t move, doesn’t rush him, gives him a minute to gather himself. Just as the moment is about to get a little too long, a little concerning, Richie finally clears his throat and meets Eddie’s gaze, something determined and painful in his eyes.

            Letting out a slow breath, Eddie asks, “Are you ready?”

            “No,” Richie answers honestly, scrubbing the heels of his palms against the tear tracks on his cheeks, a humorless laugh bubbling up from his chest. “But I need to get home, so… let’s go, I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be out by friday (feb. 15) so you won't have to wait long to see what happens, i promise ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, when i was plotting this fic forever ago: wow i can't wait to get to this big reveal!!
> 
> me now, posting the big reveal: wow i.... i really hope this isn't as disappointing to the plot as it feels like it is and that it's an actual satisfying twist because writing it does not feel as satisfying as i thought it would
> 
> basically just uhhh i'm super sorry this chapter is so late and i hope y'all don't hate it because i'm not sure if i like it either pffjdfhk

            There’s not enough noise.

            Out of everything Eddie could be thinking of, that’s what he’s stuck on. The silence, and how it feels so heavy, like lead in his lungs, hands pushing on his rib cage until his entire chest aches. Richie is usually the one to break the silences, to speak up and spout out whatever bullshit he can think of, but all that Richie does now is stare out the windshield, his expression a little blank and his eyes a little vacant, and murmur out simple instructions – a left at the light, straight for a couple miles, the next exit.

            Eddie tightens his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white and something bubbling at the back of his throat, a question or a word or some sort of exclamation, but he swallows it back and keeps driving. There’s no point in asking if Richie’s okay. He hasn’t stopped crying since they left, though he’s made a solid effort in trying to hide it, managing to keep his sniffling at bay and only lifting a hand to scrub his sleeve against his cheeks every ten minutes or so. The only reason Eddie knows is because he keeps looking, despite the fact that he shouldn’t be taking his eyes off the road as much as he has been. It’s hard not to, though, because he’s never seen Richie in this sort of state – so quiet and… broken looking – and, as much as the sight hurts, he can’t help but feel a little fascinated, too.

            Which sounds kind of shitty, Eddie realizes, but he can’t think of a better word to describe it. The sight of Richie falling apart like this isn’t fascinating, but it’s… it’s new, a different aspect of who Richie is that Eddie has yet to see before, a side of him that’s been hidden. And Eddie knows that he probably doesn’t have the right to be seeing this, that the only reason he’s a part of the situation at hand is just because he’s the only person available to give Richie a ride, but it feels… big. It feels important.

            “Take the next right,” Richie says, his voice cracking slightly, but he seems to perk up a bit, leaning forward and bracing a hand on the dashboard as the other reaches for the buckle of his seatbelt. Before Eddie has the chance to ask, he adds, “It’ll be the second driveway on the left.”

            Eddie nods, murmurs a little, “Okay,” and does as he’s told, taking the upcoming right turn and slowing down the car in order to make sure he doesn’t drive farther than he’s supposed to. He goes so slow that he practically ends up parked in the middle of the road, taking one hand off the wheel to point towards the mailbox across the street as he asks, “That one?”

            “Yeah,” Richie says, looking ready to jump out of the car and sprint the rest of the way. “There should be a space on the left for you to park. We have a big driveway, but a lot of broken down cars.”

            “Oh…kay…” Eddie tries not to think too much about that, frowning slightly to himself as he makes the turn and pulls into the dirt driveway he’d been pointing at. It crosses his mind, kind of sudden and startling, that he’s never thought to imagine what Richie’s home must look like – he never considered anything about his house, his family. All he knows is that Richie’s dad is present enough to be willing to drive an hour and a half through the snow just to pick up his son, and that Richie is very dedicated to his family – almost scarily so, if his coming home so much is anything to go by. Other than that, Eddie is clueless.

            It’s because of this that he has no idea what to expect, and as he makes that turn, he holds his breath in anticipation, wondering just what he’s going to see. And it’s… a little below average, not a small house but definitely not a big one, with a decent yard and a large, circular driveway that is, as Richie had said, filled with parked, somewhat beaten up vehicles that look like they’re already out of commission or very close to it. As soon as the car is in park, Richie is throwing open the door and launching himself towards the house, not even bothering to say a word before he does so, and in the blink of an eye, Eddie is looking at an empty front porch with a wide open door.

            He sits there for what feels like a long time, but is only really a few minutes, slowly examining the area around him. It’s a very lived in place, the grass looking recently mowed, a rickety swing set by the shed off to the far corner of the yard. From where he’s sitting, he can see a little campfire area in the center of the yard, as well as some colorful objects that he can’t really make sense of – he thinks he sees a few tennis balls, maybe a frisbee or two, but it’s hard to be sure from this distance. Judging by the faint barking he can hear from behind the house, likely a fenced area of some sort, they’re dog toys. He wonders if Richie has a dog, or if it’s a family pet.

            Maybe he should go inside, and then he’d find out.

            Or he’ll just be asked to wait in the car, which is also fine. Eddie is okay with waiting. But maybe Richie won’t mind his presence, especially since Eddie’s pretty sure that Richie’s used to having Stan with him, so he figures it’s worth the risk of being told to go away. With a deep breath, Eddie nods to himself once, turns off the engine and takes the keys out of the ignition, and tries not to second guess himself too much as he climbs out of the car and makes his way towards the front door on shaky legs.

            From here, he can already hear some sort of commotion coming from inside, not raised voices but definitely somewhat loud talking – Richie’s voice is there, and one that sounds kind of similar, only older, deeper. Richie’s dad, if Eddie were to guess. They don’t sound angry, or even frustrated, which Eddie supposes is a good sign – whatever problem it is that caused Richie to have to rush home, at least it’s not involving some sort of screaming match. The last thing Eddie wants to do is overstep his boundaries and walk right into the middle of family drama he doesn’t understand.

            “—but my point is,” he hears Richie say, as he reaches the front porch and starts to slowly make his way up the steps, “I had to find a way back here because you two don’t have your shit together, and that’s not fair, you _know_ that isn’t fair—”

            “I know it isn’t,” the second voice interrupts, sounding put out and tired. “I’m sorry. I just—”

            “You need to make a call,” Richie finishes, not bitterly, but definitely not happy. Eddie falters in the open doorway, not wanting to interrupt but not wanting to eavesdrop, either – because of that, he doesn’t say anything to alert them of his presence, but he does make sure to stand where he can be seen, and he watches as Richie looks to him, mildly surprised, as if he’d forgotten Eddie was there in his haste to get inside. Richie blinks at him once, then turns to the man in the room, who is definitely Richie’s dad, now that Eddie can see him. He’s got the same dark hair and a similar facial structure, only he looks much older than Eddie would imagine, some grays in his hair and deep bags beneath his eyes. “Go ahead,” Richie says then, jutting his chin towards the door in some kind of gesture, drawing Eddie’s attention to the fact that his hands aren’t free, as in his arms, there is a—

            Oh. Okay. That, uh… that’s not what Eddie was expecting.

            In Richie’s arms, kind of curled up and clearly fast asleep, is a toddler that can’t be more than ten months old, with a scrunched up face and a black and red onesie on. Richie swallows roughly, pointedly avoiding looking in Eddie’s general direction, and adds, “I had to get a ride from a friend anyway, so I’ve got an extra pair of hands. If we need you, we’ll let you know, so just… go call her, see if you can figure out where she is, and get her the hell back here as soon as possible, because I can’t stay here tonight.”

            Instantly, Richie’s father turns his head, only to startle slightly, eyes going a little wide at the sight of Eddie standing in the doorway. Glancing back at Richie, he points a finger at Eddie, brows raised slightly, and says, “That’s not Stan. You know that’s not Stan, right?”

            “Yeah, I know, Dad,” Richie replies, letting out a little laugh and rolling his eyes. “Stan has a boyfriend now, remember? He was kind of busy and couldn’t give me a ride soon enough, since it is kind of a national romantic holiday, y’know?” He shrugs a shoulder carefully, looking down at the sleeping child in his arms to make sure he didn’t move too much, and then explains, “This is Eddie. My roommate, remember? I told you about him. Like, a lot, actually.”

            “Hi,” Eddie murmurs as a greeting, awkwardly shuffling his feet and lifting a hand in a half-assed wave. He kind of regrets his decision to get out of the car now, but he also doesn’t, because he had plenty of questions about Richie’s life before, but now he has hundreds of them, and he hopes that he’ll get the chance to have at least a couple of them answered.

            Richie’s dad squints at him, looking a little wary and unsure, but then nods once and sticks out a hand. “Wentworth,” he introduces. “I mostly just go by Went, though. Thanks for not killing my kid. God knows he thought you were planning on it for a while there.”

            Huffing out a little laugh, feeling a little bit like he might be in some weird dream, Eddie shakes Went’s hand and says, “I considered it, I won’t lie. But, uh… I’m glad I didn’t. For what that’s worth.”

            “It’s worth more than you think,” Went chuckles, and for a moment he almost looks carefree, looks a lot like Richie, but then he sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, and shakes his head slightly to himself. “I gotta…” he trails off, gestures to the door, and offers a small, grateful smile when Eddie moves out of the way. Looking back to Richie, Went says, “I’ll be back in as soon as possible, okay?”

            “Yeah,” Richie nods, sinking his teeth into his lower lip and trying for some kind of smile. “We’re good, don’t worry. Just… get ahold of her, figure out why she fucked off this time.”

            At first, Went looks unimpressed, like he’s going to scold Richie for his language, but ultimately decides against it as he lets out an even heavier sigh and makes his way outside, pulling the front door shut behind him. Eddie stares at the door for a moment, trying to sort through his thoughts, before turning to Richie and slowly saying, “So… your dad seems cool.” Richie snorts, looking ready to reply, but the noise startles the kid in his arms, and suddenly it’s like Richie forgets that Eddie is there, as he instantly turns his full attention to softly cooing the child back to sleep. The sight is quite endearing, to be honest, but Eddie is still completely lost and baffled, so he can’t really appreciate the cuteness of it. Instead, he waits, still standing stiff as a board in the entryway of the house, until the kid is asleep once again, and only then does he (very softly) ask, “Who, uh… who’s that? You’re not a teenage dad, are you? ‘Cause you can be a little dumb sometimes, but I thought you were smart enough to avoid teenage pregnancy.”

            Richie lets out a light laugh, this one not nearly as loud or as sudden as the last one, and shakes his head. “No, this is my baby brother,” he says, looking down at the kid with a little smile as he backs up and lowers himself onto a sofa that Eddie hadn’t realized was there. That answer is relieving, but also draws up some more confusion in Eddie’s mind, but he doesn’t question it yet, instead just nodding when Richie tells him, “You can sit down, by the way,” and moves over to fall into an empty spot on the couch.

            “So…” Eddie starts after a moment, brows pinching together slightly. “When you would come back here every day, it was… it’s because of him, then? Your baby brother?”

            “And my little sister,” Richie nods, carefully lifting a hand now that his brother is resting against his shoulder in order to point down the hallway across the room from them. “She’s taking a nap right now. Her name’s Tasha, she’s four years old. This little guy—” he moves his hand to point at his brother, his movements still slow and careful, “—is named Tyler. He’s eleven months old right now.”

            Despite the situation, Eddie finds his lips quirking into a slight smile. “Tyler and Tasha Tozier?”

            Richie just shrugs. “It’s not like I named them.”

            And. Well. That’s a good point. “Fair enough,” Eddie concedes, crossing his arms over his chest and slinking down against the sofa cushions. He’s about to speak up and point out that they are cute names, not wanting to accidentally offend Richie with his previous comment, but before he gets the chance, he’s interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open, followed by a soft pair of footsteps making their way down the hall. Looking up, Eddie sees who must be Richie’s little sister standing there, rubbing tiredly at her eyes and staring into the room with a half-asleep confusion written all across her adorably pudgy face, gaze stuck on Eddie like she can’t decide if he’s actually there or not.

            After a long moment, she points to him (Eddie is starting to think this family has a habit of pointing, and he wonders if anyone has ever tried to tell them that it can be considered rude to some people, but he’s not one of those people, so he doesn’t bring that up) and asks, “Who’s that?”

            “That’s someone you can meet after you actually take a nap,” Richie answers simply, though there’s a stern lilt in his voice, leaving no room for argument – which makes sense, Eddie thinks, if Richie’s been put in charge of his siblings for the time being. It’s still just… weird. This whole thing is weird. He knew when he offered to drive Richie here that he was going to be getting a peak into the life of Richie Tozier, but he never even considered this whenever he entertained his curiosity with theories on what it was that Richie was hiding. There had been a time where he thought it was a sick parent, or something along those lines, but little siblings? And Eddie still doesn’t even really know why Richie needed to get back here so quick. He’s got some context clues, sure – there’s someone who was supposed to be here that, for some reason, isn’t here, and that’s who Went is trying to get ahold of now.

            God, it feels like Eddie is trying to connect the pieces of three different puzzles at the same exact time. He knows some of it, but not enough of it to really understand, and it’s kind of driving him crazy.

            Not that it’s his place to know it all. He’s just a nosy little shit that can’t contain his curiosity.

            “I wanna cuddle,” Tasha says, her lower lip jutting out in a pout and her eyelashes fluttering as tears gather in her eyes. Although Eddie has never met her before, he can see the bags beneath her eyes and can tell that she really is in dire need of some sleep, and the look on her face – like with any child that’s close to tears – is absolutely _heartbreaking_. Eddie doesn’t know how Richie isn’t instantly giving in to what she wants, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to refuse.

            “You know your mom wants you to sleep by yourself,” Richie tells her, though he swallows roughly, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. Eddie can’t help but frown, a little confused (or, rather, a little bit _more_ confused, adding onto the confusion already there) at that wording.

            Tasha sniffles. “But—”

            “If you take a nap by yourself, like your mom wants,” Richie cuts in, “then I’ll bring you some of your favorite ice cream this weekend. A whole container of it, just for me and you, yeah? And I’ll even make sure Stan comes with me so we can watch a movie. Just us three. Okay?”

            Although still clearly displeased, Tasha only lets out a huff of air, reluctantly nodding her head and murmuring a soft little, “Okay,” before turning around and disappearing back down the hallway.

            As soon as the sound of a door clicking shut echoes back to them, Richie lets out a loud breath, leaning his head back against the sofa and letting his eyes flutter shut. Eddie falters for a moment, glances around the living room in uncertainty, feeling horrendously out of his element and trying to think of what to do, before returning his gaze to Richie and tentatively saying, “I totally get if you don’t want me to know, and I won’t try to pry into your business, but, uh… can I ask about what’s going on? Like… I don’t know. I’m just… really curious, and kind of… confused, I guess. _Really_ confused, actually.”

            “Uh…” Richie releases a heavy sigh, keeping his eyes shut for a moment longer before blinking them open to squint at the ceiling, brows pinched together. He glances down at Tyler, still sleeping soundly in his arms, and then looks to Eddie, slowly telling him, “I… I don’t know.” Then, a bit softer, looking a bit more unsure, he murmurs, “I think I need to talk to my dad.”

 

 

 

 

            Smoke curls through the air, coming from the burning ends of two separate cigarettes. Richie frowns down at his own cig, knowing that he’s going to get an earful from Stan for smoking again despite promising that he was done with it. He also knows that Stan understands how his brain works, however, and won’t actually be upset with him – he’ll just sigh, a little sad, and he’ll remind Richie about all the reasons why he wanted to quit in the first place, and Richie will nod, maybe cry a little, and life will go on. The taste of nicotine will burn in the back of his throat for days, and he’ll consider buying himself a pack – he is eighteen, after all; it’s not illegal for him anymore – but he’ll opt against it, because this is less of an addiction and more of a coping mechanism that he should have never gotten into the habit of relying on for comfort when things are a little bit fucked.

            As if sensing Richie’s train of thought, Went flicks the ash off his own cigarette and says, “I wish you never started this shit. It’s not good for you.”

            “Very hypocritical of you to say,” Richie shrugs, offering some kind of half smile and clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth when Went just frowns at him. “I know, you don’t have to say it. Stan will yell at me plenty, I promise you. And it’s not like I smoke a pack a day like Grandma does. Just a few here and there, usually during stressful situations, so…”

            “You seem to be more stressed than usual, then,” Went points out, brows raising as he lets his cigarette hang from his lips. “I had to buy two more packs last month because you bummed so many off me. Honestly, I was starting to get worried. You haven’t taken that many since your Aunt Kathy died.”

            Richie just shrugs again, glances over his shoulder at the house and listens close for any sign of movement inside. Once he’s reassured that Tyler and Tasha have yet to wake up, he faces forward again, leaning against the side of his dad’s car and pursing his lips in thought. “Maybe,” he replies after a moment. “I guess, yeah. None of the stress has really been my fault, though. It’s either been because of stuff happening at home, or school-related. When I was still fighting with Eddie, that stress was my fault, but since this second quarter started…”

            Slowly, Went nods, frown deepening and a crease forming between his brows as he looks to the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says, a little meek, as he tosses his cigarette to the gravel and digs the heel of his shoe into it. “For all the home shit, I mean. I keep saying it, and nothing has changed, but I’m really trying to fix this and make it better. You shouldn’t have to be rushing home all the time because of—”

            “Because of her,” Richie cuts in, voice a little cold and eyes hardening slightly. “Not because of you. She’s the one that always runs off because she thinks she can pick and choose when to be a mom.”

            “Richie…” Went says slowly, not really a warning, but almost a plea, shaking his head slightly and reaching into his pocket to pull out another cigarette. He waits until it’s lit and he’s taken a drag from it before he continues, though all he really adds is, “That’s not fair.”

            “Neither is me having to step up and act like a parent when she can’t be bothered to be one,” Richie huffs, jaw clenching and teeth grinding together in frustration. He keeps his eyes trained on the trees in front of him, watching as the breeze makes the branches shift, and his voice keeps that bitter lilt when he says, “I’ve never said no to babysitting, but I’m not- I have other things now, okay? I already almost got kicked out of Kenduskeag because of how much I was coming home, and I know I almost decided not to go, but I… I _love_ it, Dad. I love this school, I love knowing that I’m actually going to be able to go somewhere doing something I love, and I want to be here and to help when I can, but I shouldn’t feel guilty when I have other responsibilities and can’t rush back here at the drop of a hat.”

            Went lets out a slow breath, almost a sigh but too tired to really qualify, and nods his head. “I know,” he says, tilting his head back and squinting up at the sky with a look of disdain written clear on his features. “And you’re right about her, too. I just…”

            Richie flicks his cigarette to the ground and shoves his hands into his front pockets, a slight, only somewhat forced smile playing at his lips. “I know. Same reason it took so long for you and Mom to split. You don’t have to tell me. Just… don’t forget that things got a lot better after you two finally stopped trying to make the impossible work. It took a while, and the circumstances were definitely different, but staying like this isn’t going to make it any better for Tasha and Tyler. They’re not dumb. They can tell when their parents are pissed at each other. I know I did.”

            For a moment, Went looks like he wants to say something else, perhaps another apology, or just some kind of comment in response, something comforting and sorrowful and uplifting, but the Tozier’s have never been the best at being vulnerable. Instead, he just sets his jaw and juts his chin towards the house, brows raised slightly, and asks, “So, you’re really serious about making up with him, huh? The only friend you’ve ever had over here is Stan, so that has to mean something.”

            “I mean, yeah, I guess,” Richie shrugs, though his thoughts do sort of freeze at that, because he hadn’t really realized the truth of the situation until now. In his panic-ridden brain, trying to find the quickest possible way to get home, he hadn’t really bothered to worry about the fact that Eddie was going to not only learn about his family, but see it first-hand. He’d thought about it for a moment, sure, when Stan asked him if he was sure he was okay with having Eddie drive him, but it was such a small, insignificant concern compared to the other things on his mind.

            And now, he’s standing here, and his little siblings are asleep inside, and Eddie is waiting in his living room for him to go back in. God, and what is Richie even gonna say when he does? A _thank you_ , for sure, because he is very thankful for Eddie driving him to Witcham on a whim like that, but…

            Should he…?

            “How much does he know?” Went asks, curiosity clear in his voice – he’s not questioning it because he wants to keep things a secret, or because he’ll be upset if Richie’s told someone every detail of his life, but because he knows his family and the struggles they’ve been through is a sensitive topic that takes a lot of trust and compassion to reveal. There’s a reason why Stan is the only person who knows.

            “Not a lot,” Richie answers, a little hushed, his mind reeling, because he… he isn’t really scared about Eddie knowing this, which is surprising. He isn’t afraid, or unsure, or anxious, like he has been so many times before whenever someone he knew got close to knowing about these things. There’s a small bundle of nerves in the pit of his stomach, but that’s more a product of his inherent inability to talk about this stuff to anyone other than Stan.

            Fuck, he has to call Stan as soon as possible. Lord fucking knows he’s probably been consistently panicking about this since Richie called him earlier. Honestly, Richie wouldn’t be surprised if Stan ignored his request to not leave his date with Mike and is on his way here right now.

            But that doesn’t matter, not right now, because he has something more important at hand.

            He needs to tell Eddie the truth. After dropping everything to drive him here, Eddie deserves that.

            “I’m gonna go back inside,” he murmurs, a little distracted and not bothering to wait for his dad’s response, instead just spinning on his heel and bounding up the steps of the front porch. He’s just about to push open the door when he hears his dad call his name, and when he glances back, Went is looking at him with a little smile and some sort of understanding written into his gaze.

            “Don’t get me wrong, I love Stan, he’s just as much a son to me as you are,” he says, shifting his eyes over to look at the front door, where Richie has a hand pressed to the knob, ready to go inside as soon as the conversation comes to an end. “But I’m glad you have more than one person.”

            Richie falters, brows furrowing slightly, and faces forward again, though he shows no sign of moving quite yet. Something about his father’s words just don’t sit well with him, making his stomach kind of clench and twist and curl, an uncomfortable feeling settling in his gut. The reason why isn’t really clear to him, at least not at first, but he winds up shaking his head and telling Went, “I don’t just have more than one person, Dad. I have… I have a lot of people, at Kenduskeag. It’s like a family, but not like this one, you know? It’s different, but they’re my family, too.”

            Though he can’t see him, Richie can hear the smile in Went’s voice when he says, “That’s good. Everyone needs a family that they choose and build on their own.”

            Slowly, Richie nods, letting out a long breath that almost sounds like a sigh and reverberates in his chest. Then, without offering another response – though he’s not sure what to respond with in the first place – he turns the door knob, and he makes his way inside.

 

 

 

 

            For a long moment, the only sound is Tyler’s soft snoring coming from his pack and play. Eddie stares down at his hands, clasped in his lap, and Richie tries not to make any noise as he bounces his knee nervously, gnawing on his thumbnail and gazing over at the wall. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t want to rush the conversation, so he simply continues these little nervous ticks of his and waits. Until, eventually, Eddie lets out a soft, slow breath, leaning back against the sofa cushion and sinking his teeth into his lower lip momentarily, only releasing it when he questions, “I can ask anything?”

            Bobbing his head in a nod, Richie tells him, “Yeah, whatever you wanna know.”

            “Why?” Eddie asks, looking at Richie in confusion, the ends of his lips tugging down in a frown. “I just mean… I’ve tried asking questions before, and you always got really upset when I did, so… I don’t know. I don’t really understand why you’re suddenly, like, okay with me digging into your life like that.”

            Richie lets Eddie’s words hand in the air for a moment, ponders over the right way to respond. Then, a bit slow and careful, he says, “I wouldn’t have minded you asking questions before if you hadn’t been treating me like shit. Now that we’re friends, and now that you’ve seen my house… I wasn’t planning on telling any of you guys about this shit yet, because there’s definitely a lot more to it than it looks, and there are years and years of shit piled up that only Stan knows about, but ever since we started getting along, and especially now that you wasted no time to try and help me get home despite not having a single clue about what was going on… I don’t know. It sounds stupid, but… you deserve to know, and I trust you enough now to not keep it all hidden, you know?” He lets out a slow breath, frowns down at his hands and bunches up his shoulders in a shrug. “I was probably gonna at least let everyone know I have little siblings pretty soon, anyway, ‘cause I’m starting to think that all of you guys really are family to me, but after this shitshow, you’ve definitely been bumped up to, like, at least a level five friend, so…”

            Despite the confusion still running rampant in Eddie’s head, he can’t help but let out a little laugh. “Level five?” he asks, brows raising. “I thought I was a level one.”

            “In January, yeah,” Richie nods, either not noticing Eddie’s joking tone or choosing to take it seriously. “When you brought me dinner while I was stuck at Adrian’s rehearsals for the next Final Show, and you actually remembered my order when you did it? That was so nice that I literally almost started crying. Like, you can ask Adrian, I was sitting on the ground and eating my burger with tears in my eyes for at least ten minutes. That got you to a level two.” Eddie laughs again, because he feels like he should, but Richie still looks dead serious, making Eddie’s laughter taper off uncertainly as he averts his eyes over to the wall. “Then, last week, when we were all at Bill and Stan’s dorm, and Bill seemed even more out of it than he already has been, and, even though we all know he’s not gonna talk to anyone other than Ben about it, I saw you pull him aside and ask if he was doing okay, and then you went to Ben and asked how to make the apple cider that they both really like. It didn’t involve me at all, but I saw it happening and it was just… it’s good to see, you know? Because I pretty much knew on the first day of the year that you were a cool dude, and even when you kept being an asshole to me, I still could tell that you weren’t really an asshole. But, seeing you do all these nice things, it brought you up to a level three. And now, all of this—” Richie waves a hand around him, a silent indication of the situation they’re in, “—got you past four and straight onto five. So, you can ask me whatever you want to know, and if there’s anything I’m not ready to tell you, I’ll just say so, but most things are on the table now.”

            For a solid thirty seconds, Eddie doesn’t say anything, just lets Richie’s words run through his mind with a faint sense of disbelief. It’s not that he thinks Richie is lying to him – even when they were at each other’s throats, Richie was pretty open about what he felt, has yet to show any signs of being a liar, such a naturally honest person from the get-go – but it still feels… too good to be true, in a way. Not that he has the potential to quench the curiosity that’s been bubbling in his gut since he overheard Stan and Richie talking in the hall on that very first day, before he even knew either of them by name, but because he’s somehow, by some miracle, earned enough of Richie’s trust to be able to hear about these things. It’s still mind blowing to him that they’ve managed to go from constant conflict to friends in the first place, but this? This level of trust? He thought this kind of trust wasn’t possible after what they went through.

            Then again, he also thought Richie forgiving him was impossible, was once so sure that Stan would hate him forever, but even Stan has become civil with him and Eddie’s quite glad to have someone like Richie to hang out with every day. Often times, things change. Eddie just has to work on wrapping his head around that fact. Before Kenduskeag, he wasn’t really accustomed to change.

            “Okay,” Eddie murmurs, nodding his head once and sucking in a slow breath, brows knitting together as he weighs his options in his mind. Richie said he can ask whatever he wants, but he’s not sure he really wants to know everything, at least not yet. It feels weird, asking Richie to dump his life story in a single sitting. It feels forced, lacking the authenticity of those special little moments where you share more pieces of yourself with the people you trust. Eddie would rather have those moments. Which is why, though he has a hundred questions burning away in the back of his mind, the first one he asks is, “Do you want to stop somewhere for food on the way back to Kenduskeag?”

            Blinking once, Richie looks at Eddie, confusion written clearly on his face. “What?”

            “I know we’re not leaving yet,” Eddie tells him, fully aware that this isn’t what Richie’s is questioning, “but, assuming you haven’t eaten since around noon, I thought you might be hungry. I know I am, and I saw a Panda Express on the way here. It’d be on the way, and I know you love their orange chicken as much as I do. Even if you don’t want any, I’ll still stop there and get enough for both of us.”

            “No, I don’t—” Richie stops, shakes his head. “You heard the part where I said you can ask literally whatever you want, right? Like, the most intrusive question ever, you can ask. Anything.”

            Eddie nods, tries not to look quite as timid as he feels as he says, “Yeah, I heard you. I don’t want to ask about it right now, though. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but whoever it is that ran off—”

            “My stepmom,” Richie cuts in.

            Nodding again, Eddie continues with, “Okay, so, your stepmom running off like this, and the fact that it sounds like she does it a lot, and the fact that you were crying the entire drive here… I mean, questioning you about all of your baggage after already having a shitty day feels like pouring salt on an open wound or some shit. So, I’ll definitely ask questions, because I’m super nosy and have a lot of questions that I’ve wanted to ask since the day I met you, but I’m not gonna ask them today, and I’m definitely not gonna ask them all at once. Hell, some of them I might not ask at all, just ‘cause I don’t like the idea of forcing topics on you or anything like that. And, you know, if there’s anything you ever _want_ to tell me, you don’t have to wait until I ask about it or I bring it u. You can just… tell me. Okay?”

            The breath that Richie lets out is shaky, kind of choked off and uneven, and when he looks at Eddie, his eyes are glimmering a bit behind his glasses, but, despite the obvious tears, he’s sporting a wide grin when he says, “You are a god damn blessing, Eddie Kaspbrak. You know that?”

            “I’m pretty great, yeah,” Eddie agrees with a wide smile, drawing out an airy chuckle from the back of Richie’s throat. He hesitates a moment, wonders if it would be weird, initiating some sort of hug, because they haven’t really been touchy quite yet, outside of their weird little slow dance during winter break. But Richie looks like a devastating mixture of extremely relieved and horribly sad, and Eddie likes to hug his friends, so he shoves his uncertainty to the side and shifts in his seat in order to wrap his arms around Richie’s shoulders, pulling him into a strange, slightly sideway embrace that makes his back ache just a little. For a short moment, Richie seems to go stiff with shock, but then he melts into it, circles his own arms around Eddie’s waist and ducks his head down to rest his cheek on Eddie’s shoulder, trembling breath brushing over the expanse of Eddie’s neck in a puff of warm air. He sniffles once, and Eddie feels his chest ache a little bit, making him tighten his hold on Richie slightly as he asks, “Are you okay?”

            He feels it more than sees it when Richie nods, though he barely manages to make out the sound as Richie hoarsely mutters, “Yeah, I’m good, Eds. It’s just weird, having more than just Stan.”

            Eddie smiles at that, a bittersweet sort of smile, and nods his understanding as he lets out a soft sigh. He’s just about to part his lips and offer some kind of response, something that he hopes would be comforting and kind, when he hears a shuffle from the other side of the room. When he looks, he sees two wide blue eyes blinking at him from the pack and play, and he can’t help but chuckle at the wide, cheesy grin that Tyler gives him. “Not to ruin the moment, but it looks like your brother’s awake.”

            “Oh, good,” Richie hums, withdrawing from the hug with a slight sense of reluctance and offering Eddie a small, grateful smile before getting to his feet and making his way over to Tyler, wasting no time in scooping him up and letting out a dramatic sort of gasp and holding Tyler up in the air, a little bit above his head, as he playfully tilts him from side to side. “Hello there, Mister Man!” Tyler giggles, making grabby hands at Richie and letting out excited, incoherent babbling as Richie brings him closer to hold in normally. In an ooey-gooey voice, Richie asks him, “You wanna meet someone, Bubba? ‘Cause I got a friend here that you haven’t met yet. You wanna make a friend?”

            Clapping his hands together, Tyler kicks his feet and follows Richie’s finger when he points over at Eddie. Unsure of what else to do, Eddie lifts his hand and waves, watching as Tyler energetically copies Eddie’s movement, waving both his hands through the air. It’s such an adorable little display of flailing hands and chubby cheeks and big, round eyes that Eddie almost doesn’t notice as Tyler spits up what looks to be the same liquid that’s in his bottle, either milk or some sort of baby formula substitute.

            Richie freezes the moment the spit up lands on his shirt, crinkling his nose in disgust and tilting his head back to look at the ceiling, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Part of Eddie feels grossed out on Richie’s behalf, but the rest of him knows that Richie must be somewhat used to this by now, having two younger siblings and all. It’s that bigger part of him that makes him feel comfortable enough to bark out a laugh, clapping his hands over his mouth to try and muffle his bouts of giggles as Richie shakes his head. “Y’know,” Richie says to Tyler, a matter-of-fact sort of tone in his voice, “I’ve never picked favorites before, but I will say that Tasha never puked on me, and you seem to really like ruining my shirts.”

            With another snort, Eddie lowers his hands and, through his laughter, manages to ask, “Isn’t picking favorites kind of a messed up thing to do?”

            “When he’s old enough to understand what I’m saying, yeah,” Richie tells him, frowning down at the spit up still soaking into his shirt. “For now, all he understands is his name and when we tell him to stop doing something, so I’m in the clear. Besides, I’m only a little serious.” Although clearly still discontent with the situation, Richie manages to flash Eddie a grin as he leans over to set Tyler on the floor, and, as Tyler instantly ambles to his hands and knees to crawl around, he says, “Tasha didn’t puke on me, but she did puke on Stan a couple of times, which definitely gives her some extra points in my book ‘cause of how funny it was.”

            “That’s so gross,” Eddie murmurs, but even as he says it, and even as the threat of being spit up on himself looms at the back of his mind, he still slides off the couch to sit on the floor when Tyler makes his way over to him, and he thinks, gross as it may be, that maybe this kid is cute enough to make being puked on worth it. Especially when Tyler clambers onto his feet and walks the rest of the way to Eddie on slightly unstable legs with a wide, beaming grin, A few feet away, still standing and watching the scene fondly, Richie grins just as wide, thinking that he’d quite like to see the rest of his friends meet his little siblings, so long as all the meetings go a little something like this.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think and feel free to hmu on tumblr @ lo-v-ers


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